


Visit to a Weird Pad

by gwenweybourne



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: 1960s, A Coffin Too Frequent, Actor RPF - Freeform, Alternate Timelines, Celebrity culture, Comedy, Friendship, Gen, Hat-tip to Star Trek for the inspiration, Hollywood, Real/fictional Monkees crossover, Television, tv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: What would happen if the Monkee actors woke up in the "real" Pad while the Monkee characters woke up onThe Monkeesset in Hollywood? How will they cope with what's happened and what will they have to do in order to get through the day until their realities hopefully get switched back to normal?
Comments: 45
Kudos: 52





	1. Welcome to the Pad

**Author's Note:**

> This story lovingly takes its title and inspiration from a pair of vintage Star Trek fics that were originally published in fanzines. It started with "Visit to a Weird Planet," by Jean Lorrah and Willard H. Hunt, published in _Spockanalia 3_ , November 1968. In which the Star Trek characters beam onto the Star Trek set.
> 
> This was followed by "Visit to a Weird Planet Revisited," by Ruth Berman, originally published in _Spockanalia 5_ , June 1970, then in the Bantam _Star Trek: The New Voyages_ fiction collection in 1976. This flips the script and tells the other half of that day, putting the actors onto the Enterprise in the middle of an intergalactic incident. Hilarity ensues.
> 
> I can't express how much I love these stories. I didn't discover them until much later after they were originally published, but it was long enough ago that I had to wait a long time for the Internet to be invented so I could finally read Lorrah and Hunt's original story. I have a dog-earred copy of _New Voyages_ that you will have to pull from my cold, dead hands. But I loved, loved, loved the idea of the actors coping with their roles becoming real (this was basically the plot of _Galaxy Quest_ ) and vice versa. I hadn't seen anyone try it with the Monkees, so here it goes.
> 
> I'm attempting to write both stories at once here, with "The Monkees" and The Monkees swapping places during one very weird day in 1967. I chose “A Coffin Too Frequent” as the episode that gets disrupted for the simple reason that I wanted the boys all together in one room for the opening scene, and having them in bed made for an easier transition of having them "wake up" to their new surroundings.  
> Enjoy!

Mike Nesmith felt very weird as he woke up. He didn’t even remember going to sleep. They’d been shooting a scene in the ridiculous four-man communal Monkees bedroom that had recently been retrofitted into the second season as a budget-friendly way to provide the series with more comedic opportunities in the Pad. Mike sat up slowly, stretching. His head felt fuzzy and he was having trouble slotting facts into their proper mental slots. He heard breathing and looked to his left to see Micky. A glance to his right brought Peter and Davy into focus. They were all fast asleep in the narrow beds. Mike ran a hand over his face and tried to figure out what seemed so strange and completely off.

And then he blinked. It was quiet. Completely quiet. He lifted his head and looked at the far wall.

There was a far wall?

There wasn’t supposed to be a far wall. The fourth wall never existed, except as a turn of phrase for looking into the camera and acknowledging the audience as they often did for comedic effect. But where there was usually a camera, there was a wall.

Where was the camera? Where was … the set? Mike’s heart began to hammer in his chest as he slowly looked up and a hand flew to his mouth.

There was a ceiling. Just a regular old ceiling. But there wasn’t supposed to be a ceiling. There should be huge banks of lighting rigs and the ceiling should be on the studio itself, a hundred feet above their heads.

 _Am I dreaming?_ Mike wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time he dreamed about his job. But he’d never dreamed that the Monkees world was real. Not really, anyway. Sometimes it was a mix of both, but he’d never dreamed about fully living inside a Monkees script. Even if that were the case, this felt way too lucid. Usually the “is this a dream?” moment was around the time he woke up.

He looked around again at his sleeping castmates. He decided not to wake any of them. Not yet. Not when he was still so confused. They’d just be a distraction and add further confusion. Especially if they were just figments of his dream. Because they had to be. This had to be a dream. None of this could possibly be real.

Mike quietly slipped out of bed and padded to the door. The floor felt the same under his feet. Things smelled the same. The only difference was the near-suffocating silence. A set was almost always noisy until the director called “action,” but even then, the silence had a different quality. Being in a warehouse-sized space, there always seemed to be some kind of echo hanging in the air. But Mike heard none of that. Carefully avoiding the oversized gong, he closed his fingers around the bedroom doorknob and turned it.

Stepping out, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find. Maybe somehow the set would be on the other side of the door, but instead he was standing on the second floor of the Monkees’ Pad.

Swallowing, Mike looked around in confusion. He was in the beach house. But it was a full, solid structure with a full ceiling. He closed the door behind him and stood, thinking for a moment. This was impossible. “It’s gotta be a dream,” he muttered. Or some kind of elaborate prank. They pranked each other on set all the time. But this was … beyond the pale. And what … had he been drugged and placed into this replica set to mess with his head? Had he taken anything unusual … beyond the usual …? He couldn’t remember. A vague sense of panic was creeping in on the edges of his consciousness and he was having trouble thinking clearly. And if he’d been drugged then he’d definitely not be able to think all that straight.

He descended the tornado staircase, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

“David?” he called out hesitantly. “David … okay, this ain’t funny … where’d y’all go? This is some far-out setup, man, but that’s enough. C’mon, Dave …”

But there was no answer from David Winters, their director for this episode, and who had done the choreography for their first live show. Mike called out a few more names, even going as far to invoke Bob Rafelson and Bert Schneider, the show-runners and producers, but there was nothing but dead silence. And then Mike finally registered a sound …

He slowly turned around and gazed out the large bay window behind the bandstand. He saw the ocean … and it was moving. He could hear the waves crash on the shore and the sound synced up perfectly with the movement of the water. Normally it was just a flat, painted backdrop.

“What the …” he whispered, moving to the door that led onto the “sundeck” and he bit back a startled cry when he realized … he was outside. He could smell the salty ocean breeze. It ruffled his hair and the waves continued to crash on the shore. He was in a real beach house … on a real beach.

Mike Nesmith wasn’t the type for overly emotional displays. And when it did happen, it usually came out as anger. He rarely broke down and when he did, it was something he only allowed himself to do privately. And in that moment, he wrapped his arms around himself and swallowed a whimper because he was starting to panic. This wasn’t like any dream he’d ever had, any drug trip he’d ever had, and there was no way this was a prank. Something like this would have cost more than the entire production budget. That was a real beach and a real sky and a real ocean and a real house. So … what the hell did that mean?

He nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard the door squeak open behind him.

“Mike?” a thin, high voice inquired softly and fearfully.

Mike rubbed a hand over his face and slowly turned around. “It’s me, Micky.”

Micky Dolenz had followed him out onto the deck and the look of confused terror on his face all but confirmed Mike’s worst fear.

“Mike …” Micky’s mouth was trembling. “What the ____ is happening?” And then Micky’s brow furrowed, as did Mike’s.

“What … what did you just say, Mick?”

“I said, what the ____ is happening?” Micky looked at Mike in horror. “Mike … I’m trying to say ___ … the F-word … I can’t … I can’t say it …”

“What the ____,” Mike said. Then his eyes widened. “Holy ____.”

“Mike, where are we?” Micky whispered. “What is going on? I’m scared.”

“We’re … in the Pad,” Mike said.

“Well, no ____ we’re in the Pad,” Micky snapped. “But it’s … THE PAD, man. It’s real.”

“I don’t know, Micky,” Mike said. “I only ‘woke up’ a few minutes before you did. I think maybe we should go check on Peter and Davy. I just want to believe that we’re trippin’ on some drug and maybe it’s not affecting us all the same.”

“Peter …” Micky said.

“Peter,” Mike replied as they entered the faux-yet-real Pad again and went back upstairs. Peter did the most drugs out of all of them and could withstand higher doses and types of most anything.

* * *

But when Mike and Micky urged the other two Monkees awake, it was the same for them. And after another ten minutes of aimless wandering around the “Pad” and confused exclamations, some bordering on sheer hysteria, the four actors sat slumped on various pieces of furniture in the living room.

“What the ____,” muttered Davy. “What the ___ is going on … AND WHY CAN’T I CURSE?”

And then Micky looked up, his face registering a kind of understanding. “Guys …” he said softly. “Guys … I think we’re actually _in_ the show.”

“That’s impossible!” Davy blurted.

“That word has started to lose all meaning,” Peter groaned, burying his head in his hands.

“I know it’s impossible, Peter,” said Micky, “but at this point, what other answer is there? Think about it. Think about why we can’t curse. We can’t curse on the show. The censors won’t allow it. So … that’s one of the rules here. Even if we try, we can’t get the words out.”

“____, ____, mother-____ing ____-ing ____!” yelled Davy, then fell silent, his eyes going wide.

“Oh my ___,” whispered Mike, then scowled. “Oh, come _on_ now!”

“Can’t say that on the show, either,” said Micky, shrugging.

The other three gazed up at him, suddenly realizing that Micky not only had a point, but maybe he understood this better than the rest of them.

“You read all that science fiction stuff,” Mike said. “Is this why you seem to kind of dig what’s going on?”

“He’s into actual science, too, Michael,” Peter said peevishly. “Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, whatever, man … you know what I mean.”

“Well, yeah,” said Micky slowly. “I really dig physics and that stuff, too. But I only … I just dabble. A hobby … y’know, with _all_ the free time I have. But stuff about parallel universes and the nature of time. Like, alternate timelines. And that stuff gets used in science fiction a lot. It’s all theory and it’s just that … fiction. But I recently read this really far-out anthology and there was this story by Poul Anderson about parallel universes and it was really trippy … and well …” he shrugged helplessly.

Mike frowned. “I’m tryin’ real hard to follow here, Mick, but none of this makes any sense.”

“Well, of course it doesn’t!” Micky cried out in frustration, throwing his arms up. “You think I got any concrete answers at all, Mike? You wanna contribute a theory? You got a big plan, like you do on the show?”

Mike scowled. “No. I got nothin’. ’Cept we ain’t dreamin’, this ain’t an elaborate hoax, and if someone dosed me with bad acid, then I’m beyond help. I’m probably in a straitjacket in a loony bin somewhere with my brain melting outta my ears.”

Peter sighed, looking at Micky. “Mick, I think you’re the best equipped to try to walk us through this. Your theory about why we can’t cuss makes perfect sense … in this nonsensical place we’ve found ourselves in. What else do you think?”

Micky had got up and had started pacing. “Well,” he said, “so, if it’s the show … then what are the rules of the show? What are some of the things that always happen? What rules the Monkee universe, as small and ridiculous as it is?”

Peter blinked. “Cutaways,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Huh?”

“Cutaways. Let’s test your theory, Mick. What happens when the Monkees start to brainstorm a problem? That question is rhetorical, by the way. Just, everyone think about it together.”

And suddenly the room was flooded with daylight and the actors looked down to see their pajamas replaced by academic robes. Micky stood in front of them, holding a pointer in front of a blackboard.

“Brilliant, old bean!” he said in a very fake, posh English accent, tapping the pointer on the blackboard. “Nailed it right on the head, I say. So let’s …” he trailed off, eyes widening.

They all stared at each other.

“Cutaways,” Peter whispered.

“Well, ____ me,” Mike said.

* * *

So they made a list in chalk on the blackboard. Starting with the things they couldn’t do.

_No cursing_

_No drug references (not REALLY obvious ones)_

_No sex_

_No politics_

_No recurring girl characters_

_No adults with any real authority (Babbitt doesn’t count)_

_No bathroom scenes_

“Not to be crude, but has anyone actually had to use the bathroom since we got here?” asked Peter.

They all shook their heads. Mike got up and went over to the room where the Pad’s bathroom was presumably located. It had only been mentioned once in passing in “The Monkees Get Out More Dirt,” when the guys split up the Pad into four parts while having a fight over Julie Newmar.

Mike opened the door and stood aside to reveal a blank wall. “Well, we better hope we don’t have to go while we’re here. Otherwise we’ll be whizzin’ off the deck, I guess.”

“I thought of something else,” Micky said slowly, an expression of horror spreading over his face.

“Oh, now what?” said Mike.

Micky looked Mike in the eye. “Well … if we’re here … then where are _they_?”

Davy gasped.

“No …” Peter whispered.

“Oh my ___,” Mike said. “You mean …”

“They must over be … there,” said Micky, rubbing a hand over his face.

They all stared helplessly at one another.

“They must be so scared,” Peter murmured.

“They must be causing chaos and ____-ing up our lives!” Mike snapped.

“Maybe not,” said Micky. “Think about it. If we can somehow ‘fix’ this on our end and get things turned back around, maybe David and the crew will just think those guys are just on a really elaborate riff. Staying in character and playing dumb. Just to be … well … us. That’s something we do. It’s something we’ve done before.”

“Never to that degree!” said Mike.

“Talk about method acting,” Davy muttered.

Micky sighed. “Work with me, Nez. C’mon, man. All of you. We have to think like our characters now. Think about what they’d do in that situation. Mike will clue in first that something’s wrong. Just like he did here. He’ll calm the others down.”

“I’m probably crying,” Peter muttered bitterly.

“Yeah, but the others will take care of you. They’ll stick together and have each other’s backs.”

“Micky will think it’s hilarious and want to have fun with it.”

“Davy’s probably hitting on all the extras as we speak.”

“How’s that different from _our_ Davy?”

Davy snorted. “If we have to follow the rules of the show, he’s in for quite a surprisingly good time if any of ’em let him do more look starry-eyed at them and get a kiss.”

Peter burst out laughing. “Oh my ___, I didn’t even think about that.”

“Oh, I’m thinkin’ about it. Godspeed, young lad. Go where no Monkee has gone before.”

“Nice _Star Trek_ reference,” said Micky. “And they’ve done parallel universe stuff on that show, too. Oh, man, there was a recent episode called ‘Mirror, Mirror,’ where a bunch of the main characters ended up a parallel Enterprise in a parallel universe where everything was kind evil and opposite to their world and they had to play along to survive and get back to their proper timeline.”

“Well, how’d they get out of that fix?” asked Davy.

“Ah, some kind of transporter schtick,” said Micky. “It’s how they fix everything because they never have really to explain how the transporter actually works!” Then he looked around and caught the eyes of all of his castmates. “But they all had to work together. And … that’s what the Monkees have to do every week. They work together. And what else do they also do …”

“They always win in the end,” said Davy. “Because they’re the good guys.”

“Exactly,” Micky said. “So … maybe it’s more up to them than us. They’ve been in weirder jams.”

The other Monkees spent a few moments mentally reviewing the outlandish plots they’d encountered in the many scripts they’d performed and had to concede that this wasn’t the wildest story that had ever been concocted for them.

“So, does that make us … the mirror people?” said Peter. “The bad ones?”

“If the shoe fits …” Mike muttered.

“We’re not bad,” Micky said softly. “We’re just … real. So maybe the unreal guys will find an unreal solution. But there’s gotta be something we can do here to help them.”

* * *

The list continued.

_The Monkees always win/save the day_

_Only comedic violence, and no one gets seriously hurt or dies_

Micky bit his lip. “Boy, that one worries me.”

“Why?” asked Davy.

Mike let out a breath. “Oh, man. What if … what if the guys form a plan and actually hurt someone on the set without meaning to? Or get hurt themselves? I mean, you realize that normal people would be vegetables in all the times we get bashed on the head in the show. People get punched and no one ever bleeds. We get shot at and no one gets hit. Those guys live in a _______ Looney Tunes cartoon world!”

Micky blinked. “What would happened if one of them died over there? Like … would their counterpart here die as well?”

They all stared at him in horror. Until Mike raised a hand. “Okay, okay, c’mon … we’re getting off track here and you’re going off in some weird places with this science fiction junk, Micky. Let’s stop worrying about the sh…stuff we can’t control. All we got is what we can do here.”

“What happens if we try to leave the Pad?” Micky asked suddenly.

“We leave the Pad all the time on the show,” said Davy.

“Yeah, but … not really.” Micky said. “We go out the door and then they call ‘cut’ and we then we move on to another shot. Anything that happens outside the Pad is shot on another part of the set, the lot, or on location. We’ve never seen what’s actually outside beyond what the audience can see when someone comes to the door. Where’s the Monkeemobile parked? Which way is the Malibu city center?”

“Are you asking just because you’re curious or because this will somehow help us?” asked Mike irritably.

“Mike, we need to know what we’re dealing with here. I mean, also … what if this is somehow a giant prank? And all we have to do is walk out the door? Instead we’ve been sitting here for over an hour, talking about how we’re stuck here. Has anyone tried to _leave_?”

“You and I were out on the deck,” Mike said.

Micky shook his head. “It’s part of the Pad set. We shoot scenes out there all the time. We have to actually try to leave the Pad.”

It suddenly got very dark again and then they realized the cutaway had ended and it was once again nighttime and they were back in their pajamas. The blackboard was gone, but they had a working summary of how this world might work.

Peter reached over and tried turning on a lamp. It actually worked and lit up the living room, which put everyone else somewhat more at ease.

“Fine, I’ll say it,” Peter muttered. “I’m no coward, but I’m scared ____-less at the thought of going out there. What if I disappear?”

It was often hard to take Peter seriously when he was wearing the ridiculous, childish orange footie-pajamas with the blue bunny and matching orange nightcap, but even now his words were sobering.

“We all go together,” said Micky firmly. “The Monkees stick close together when things get weird and scary, so that’s what we’ll do. And if we’re meant to go somewhere, we’ll all go together. Think about it … whenever they shoot a scene where someone leaves the Pad, it’s usually everyone going together. Or running out together to save one of us.”

“Okay, then,” said Mike, standing up and smoothing down his pajamas. “Let’s do it. Together.”

The four castmates tentatively approached the door and opened it. Outside, it was dark, but they could make out a few shapes of a few familiar set pieces occasionally seen when a scene was shot in and around the Pad door.

Micky took a breath and stepped forward. What resulted was something very similar to an actual Monkees scene because Micky hit what felt like a solid wall and the other three men crashed up behind him. “Ow!”

“Ouch! Micky, what the ____?”

“I can’t get out, guys! It’s … like a wall!” Micky reached up and rapped his knuckles on the “air,” and they heard a hollow knocking sound indicating a solid barrier between them and “outside.”

They backed up slowly, suddenly terrified again. They really were trapped.

“It won’t work, you know,” said a strangely familiar voice that didn’t belong to any of them.

“… who said that?” whispered Davy.

They all turned around seemingly in slow motion, gazing fearfully into the room.

“I said … it won’t work.”

Micky’s fingers dug into Mike’s arm and he sounded almost like his character, who was prone to dramatic fits of fear played for laughs. But there was nothing funny about this. “M-M-Mr. Schneider?” he stammered.

Peter gasped.

Their heads whipped in unison to a corner of the room where the dummy sat.

Mr. Schneider’s plastic head slowly turned to look at them.

“I don’t like this,” Davy whimpered. “This is ____-ed up, guys.”

“I said … _again_ … it won’t work.”

Mike swallowed and took a step forward. “What won’t work, Mr. Schneider? Us goin’ outside?”

“Yes.” The dummy’s mouth moved mechanically, but the voice belonged to actor/director James Frawley, as it did in their world.

“This is really creepy,” Peter whispered.

“No ____,” Davy muttered.

Micky seemed to recover his wits and stepped up to stand next to Mike, realizing that this was a new source of information. “I know, Mr. Schneider. So … what do we do now?”

“Wait for the adventure to start,” droned the dummy.

“The adventure?” said Mike, furrowing his brow.

“The story,” Micky said. “I think he means the story. The episode. We have to wait for it to begin.”

“The ending cannot be achieved until the beginning commences,” said Mr. Schneider.

Micky turned around and looked at the other Monkees. “We have to go back to bed.”

“What?” Mike snapped. “You think anyone can _sleep_ after this?”

“Not to sleep!” Micky said, frustrated. “That’s the first scene of the script! We’re getting ready to go to bed. Peter has the first line. If we go back to bed and start the script, then the story can begin!”

“You mean … we gotta act out the episode?” said Davy.

Micky shrugged. “You got a better idea? You heard what Mr. Schneider said … we can’t reach the end until we allow the beginning to start. Maybe … if we can play out the episode, this will all reset itself somehow and we’ll go back and the other guys will be returned here. Maybe that’s their mission on the other end … make it through a day of shooting and getting the episode in the can.”

“That’s a … massive extrapolation, Micky,” said Peter. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I _know_ that, Peter. Again … you got a better idea? Or we just rattle around in here until we starve to death … if we’re lucky?”

Peter shook his head. “Man … what if … what if we’re just doomed to keep living out episodes here for eternity?”

“Shut up, Peter!” Mike snarled. “We can’t think about that right now, man. Because you know what _I’m_ thinking about right now? What if those guys don’t get returned here before the shoot wraps and ‘Mike Nesmith’ goes home to my wife and kid? That’s what I’m thinkin’ about!”

“Might not be the worst thing …” Peter muttered under his breath.

Mike’s face was livid as he took a step toward Peter. “Why you son of a _____!”

Micky and Davy took Mike’s arm and tugged him back. “No, Mike! Don’t!”

“Say you’re sorry, Peter!” Micky snapped. “That was really uncool. Apologize!”

Peter’s mouth was pressed into a grim line, but he shook his head and took a breath before lifting his head to look at Mike. “I’m sorry, Michael. I really am. That was … uncalled for. I’m really freaked out, man. I’m sorry. I know we gotta work together to get through this. Let’s just … do this. Together.” He held out his hand to shake.

Mike shook off Micky and Davy and stared hard at Peter’s hand. “Don’t do it again,” he muttered, grabbing Peter’s hand in a vice grip and shaking it once. “Say whatever the ____ you want about me—you always do—but don’t talk about me and my family. I’m freaked out, too. I wanna go home. They’re waiting for me.”

“I understand,” said Peter, shamefaced.

“Understanding is the path to liberation,” said Mr. Schneider sagely.

Peter looked at the dummy and gave a genuine smile. “You’re right, Mr. Schneider.”

“What was that?” asked Micky.

“Buddha,” Peter replied. “He quoted Buddha. Someone I should be emulating more right now instead of saying cruel things because I’m frightened.”

Mike rolled his eyes a little like he usually did at Peter’s spiritual talk, but he nodded. “It’s fine, man. Let’s … just go back upstairs and ‘start the show’ and see what happens next.”

“And maybe Mr. Schneider also means that if we get through this … we’ll be liberated in the end,” said Micky.

“Lord, I hope so …”

“I hope you chaps all know your lines,” Davy quipped as they filed upstairs. “Somethin’ tells me we only get one take on this gig.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerd Notes:
> 
> The Poul Anderson story Micky references is called “Eutopia” and was published in a 1967 anthology called "Dangerous Visions," edited by the legendary Harlan Ellison (who also wrote arguably the best Star Trek TOS episode ever, "City on the Edge of Forever" -- even though he hated the edits and rewrites). (I have no personal knowledge that Micky ever read this book, but given he loves sci-fi, it's not outside the realm of possibility.)  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dangerous_Visions


	2. Welcome to the Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back in Hollywood ...

Mike Nesmith felt very weird as he woke up. The last thing he remembered was going to bed and Peter hitting the gong before turning the lights off. _Boy, I musta really been tired. I don’t remember going to sleep at all_. Mike sat up slowly, stretching. His head felt fuzzy and he was having trouble slotting facts into their proper mental slots. Mike ran a hand over his face and tried to figure out what seemed so strange and completely off.

And then he blinked. It was noisy. Incredibly noisy. He lifted his head and looked at the far wall.

Where was the far wall?

There was no wall. And there were people. Lots of people. People sitting behind cameras. People adjusting lights. People carrying clipboards and bustling back and forth. Mike’s brow furrowed and he stared, agape, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. And then, quickly, his head whipped around to check on his friends. Micky, Davy, and Peter were in their beds, but beginning to stir as well. And then, suddenly, a young, handsome blond man came up to him.

“Har, har,” he joked, chuckling. “Takin’ naps, I see. I appreciate your patience while we tweak the lighting. It wasn’t going to take long enough to bring in the stand-ins. We’ll be ready to go in a moment, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Mike said slowly. “No problem.” His eye was caught by a sheaf of papers clutched in the blond man’s hand. Because it had their band logo on the front, just like on Micky’s bass drum.

“Um,” he said, hesitating, then just decided to go for it and pointed to the papers. “Can I … see that?”

The man looked down. “The script? Yeah, yeah, sure, babe. We’ll get you another.” He looked out into the room and called out. “Winnie? Winnie! Get a spare script over here for Mike, okay? We need them to stay put for a few more minutes.”

“No problem, David!” A woman hurried over and shoved a copy of the papers into Mike’s hands. “Thank you,” he said politely, as she nodded and moved off. _David … fella who seems to be in charge is named David. Gotta remember that._

Mike looked at the cover of the bound sheaf of papers.

**The Monkees**

**“A Coffin Too Frequent”**

**#4741**

**by Stella Linden**

Furrowing his brow, Mike flipped through the pages, his expression growing more alarmed by the moment. “What the heck …” he murmured. “What is this?”

“Mike?”

Mike turned to his left to see Micky staring at him, his eyes wide as saucers. “Mike … what’s happening? Who are all these people?” Micky scrambled out of bed and practically launched himself at Mike, clinging to his arm. “Mike?” Micky hissed. “Mike … I don’t mean to alarm you, but WE ARE MISSING A WALL AND A CEILING.”

“I know, Micky, I know. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

And then the bed rocked again as both Peter and Davy clambered on, all of them chattering nervously in low tones.

“Hey … hey, guys!” the blond man named David called out. “I need you in the beds, okay? We can’t get the lighting properly set.”

Mike held up a hand to signal quiet from his bandmates, and then he addressed the blond. “Um … David?”

“Yeah, Mike?”

“We’re, uh, just gonna need a minute here, okay? Got some … questions about lines.”

“Okay, okay, man. But I really need you all back on your marks in a minute.”

“Okay, David. No problem,” said Mike.

“Who is David?” Micky hissed.

“Mike, did where the wall go?” Peter asked, on the verge of tears. “Where’s the rest of our house?”

“What do you mean by ‘lines’?” Davy asked. He peered over Mike’s arm at the script. “Crikey, Mike, what’s going on? Where are we?”

“I don’t … I don’t rightly know,” Mike said. “But we need to stay calm, okay? None of these folks seem to realize we ain’t who they think we are and I think it’s best if we try to keep it that way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Micky.

“Well, look at this,” Mike said, showing Micky the script. “It’s like … I think we’re in a TV show, guys. And the TV show is about us! It’s about a band called the Monkees and —”

“It’s our names,” said Micky, aghast, flipping through the pages. “Mike, Peter, Davy, and Micky. How is this possible, Mike?”

“I don’t get it,” said Peter, a few tears leaking from his eyes.

“Hey, hey, Peter, don’t cry,” Mike said soothingly. “I don’t think we’re in any danger here. It’s just kinda weird. But weird stuff happens to us all the time, right? This ain’t the strangest thing we ever seen, is it?”

A moment was all it took for them to think and agree that they had seen and done much stranger things than wake up in a replica of their bedroom.

“And the weird stuff never lasts forever, right?” Mike said.

Peter shook his head, snuffling.

“That’s right,” Mike said, patting his back. “It’s just for a little while. And we do what we always do ...”

“Just go with the flow, baby,” Micky said. “Wait for the adventure to start.”

“Just like Mr. Schneider says.”

“This is just a new adventure, Pete,” Mike said. “It might even be kind of fun. We can pretend to be actors for a day.”

“But we ain’t actors,” Davy said anxiously. “Are we expected to have all those lines memorized? We don’t know the script or the story. They’re gonna bust us in the first scene.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mike.

“Huh?”

Mike looked at Peter. “Pete … what did you do before we ended up here?”

Peter looked confused. “Well … I said ‘time for bed’ and then I hit the gong on the door, but that was okay because I had earmuffs on. And the stick broke. And then I turned out the light. And then we traded beds and traded beds back.”

Mike tugged the script away from Micky and showed it to Peter. “Well, see, that’s exactly what’s in this here script. So, I think … if we just do what we normally do, it should be okay. Just try not to think about it too much.”

“Not a problem!” said Peter with a dopey grin.

“But what happens when we run out of pages?” asked Micky. “What do we do then?”

“I think we worry about that later if it comes to that point,” said Mike. “What I really wanna know is … if we’re here … then where are they?”

Three jaws dropped in unison.

“They must be at the real Pad!”

“They better not touch my stuff.”

“You don’t have any stuff.”

“Not that you know of …”

“I’ve seen what’s under your bed, man …”

“How dare you!”

“Mike, how are we going to get them out of there and back here?”

Mike made a time-out sign with his hands. “Cool it, fellas! You’re getting all worked up. I’m guessing they’re all alone at the Pad and probably more scared than we are. But if we just do what we’re supposed to do here … go on the adventure, then I bet we’ll end up back home at the end of the day like we usually do. Now, I think that blond fella David is the director and he’s kind of in charge of the story, so maybe we oughta get back to bed as he asks and get on with this thing.” He looked around at the anxious faces of his best friends. They relied on him for leadership and stability and Mike wasn’t going to let them down. “It’s gonna be okay, fellas. I promise. Now just hop back into bed while they finish this lighting thing, whatever that is, and just do what comes natural. We can do this together.”

The other three nodded, reassured by Mike’s words.

“Okay, Mike. We can do this.”

They all crawled back into their own beds and waited as patiently as possible.

“You guys ready to go?” asked David Winters.

Four nods.

“All right. Let’s do it. Okay, quiet on the set!” he yelled, returning to stand next to the camera. “This is a take! Lights … camera … ACTION!”

* * *

After the first hour, the adventure didn’t feel like much of an adventure anymore. It was just … boring. Tedious.

“I don’t know how many more ways I can say ‘I have to get a cup of coffee,’" Micky muttered to Mike between gritted teeth.

“Well, I dunno, man. Just keep tryin’ and eventually you’ll hit on one that’ll make ’em happy. Sheesh, I had no idea that makin’ a TV show was this dull! Do … our guys … do this every day?”

“Why would anyone ever want to do this?” Davy whispered. And then caught sight of a cute blonde walking by. “Okay, well, then again …”

Micky rolled his eyes. “Like you don’t meet enough chicks already, man.”

“If we have a TV show, we must be famous, right?”

“Not ‘we,’” said Mike. “Them.”

“Yeah, yeah, but for now we are them. We must be famous if we have our own show.”

“Well, sure, but what’s your point?”

“Famous blokes get lots of girls. And if we’re famous, then I bet we’re rich, too!”

“So what?” Peter asked.

“He’s got a point,” Micky said dreamily. “Oh boy, I wonder how much those guys get paid! I bet they eat … every day!”

“Okay, okay, simmer down now,” Mike said quietly. “Don’t lose your heads over this. This ain’t our life. We’re … just borrowin’ it for a little bit.”

“I hope it’s a lease-to-own option,” Davy said, winking as another girl shyly waved at him as she walked by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Internet makes this level of geekiness possible. I spent way too long looking up the actual number of the "A Coffin Too Frequent" script, along with other names of crew members.


	3. The Puppet Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights, no camera, action as the actors begin to perform "A Coffin Too Frequent."

As soon as Peter uttered his first lines, the four actors could feel the energy change in their environment. It was oddly exhilarating, but also absolutely terrifying. When the ominous laughter rang from downstairs, they knew it wasn’t actor George Furth … it really was “Henry” and though he appeared harmless enough, it felt like a real invasion. And there was no director, no one to call the shots. No one to yell “CUT!” when mistakes were made or the cast needed a moment to regroup and recheck lines.

They were completely untethered and completely alone, reliant only on one another to get through this experience.

Peter knew his lines, but — and maybe it was just because he was very interested in the nature and understanding of cosmic energy — he was aware of another effect of this change in vibes. He didn’t have to reach very hard to say his lines or perform the required actions … it was if he were being gently manipulated like a puppet. It wasn’t painful or especially invasive, but it was bizarre. He had a strange half-smile on his face, oddly fascinated by the sensation, but he didn’t see a similar look on Micky’s, Davy’s, or Mike’s faces. Davy and Mike looked tense and Micky was unreadable, except for his eyes darting in every which direction, as if trying to process and analyze as much information as he could.

And then they were downstairs, facing “Henry” for the first time. Peter realized that very shortly a “sped-up” scene would occur in which the Monkees rushed back upstairs to anxiously pack luggage in order to vacate their home, as demanded by Henry, who was preparing for the midnight seance. It was a trope that was used in almost every episode, played for laughs and as a way to move the narrative forward in a short amount of time.

Peter turned to the other Monkees and whispered urgently, “Guys … just let it happen.”

“Huh?” Mike whispered back.

“Shhhh!” Micky chastised. 

“The next scene — don’t fight it. Just let it happen. Like you’re a puppet. Which is kind of what we are, after all. Trust me. I think it will be easier to manage if you just … let go.”

The other three looked perplexed, but they had lines to deliver and then … it happened. Peter took a deep breath and just let himself go, trusting that all would be well, and it was. He was propelled upstairs with the others and then the luggage-packing scene happened in double-time. Obviously when they shot the show normally, they carried out these actions in normal time, complete with choreography to keep them from constantly crashing into one another (which they did anyway, but this reduced some of that chaos) — and then it was sped it up in post-production. But this was really happening.

Peter caught sight of his friends’ faces, terrified at first, but then they too eased into it, heeding Peter’s advice and letting their limbs be manipulated by the invisible force and then it was over and they were throwing the suitcases down from the second floor.

“That was insane,” Micky gasped. They were all out of breath. “But I’m glad you said that, Pete … I think fighting it would have been a big mistake.”

Then they were downstairs and the scene required them to attempt to exit the Pad, but they were stopped by the arrival of Mrs. Mildred Weatherspoon. Peter reminded himself it wasn’t really Ruth Buzzi, a charming comedienne who in reality was only six years older than Peter.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, we were —” Mike replied before getting cut off.

“Oh, no, you can’t leave!” the old lady implored. “You’ve got to be witnesses!”

“Witnesses to what?” Micky replied on cue.

“Elmer’s return from the dead!” cried Mrs. Weatherspoon.

Micky and Micky grimaced and Peter gave a shocked expression. And then they stopped.

Mrs. Weatherspoon looked at them curiously and the Monkees realized that they were waiting for a “CUT” because it was the end of the cold open and time for the opening credits of the show.

“Keep going!” Davy hissed.

Mike blinked, startled, then said, “Uh, yeah. Well, look, uh, give, uh, Elmer buddy our regards, and we’ll catch you the next time around, okay? Let’s split.”

The scene proceeded as the Monkees continued to invent excuses to leave the Pad and Mrs. Weatherspoon kept thwarting them by producing a series of improbable items from her oversized bag, including sandwiches, a cup of coffee, and an old-fashioned telephone.

They all felt a sense of rising anxiety because they knew who was arriving next. Henry’s hulking cousin, Boris. Who was really “Boris” and not the affable Mickey Morton, a character actor known for his roles that played up his sheer physical size. He was six foot eight and barrel-chested and, frankly, terrifying.

But they had to push forward with the story and reluctantly they trooped out in single file, then quickly reversed and ran back inside as the Pad’s door was ripped off its hinges, signalling the arrival of Boris, pushing a coffin.

Davy clung to Peter’s arm. Mike let out a quiet, gasping wail. Micky tried to distract himself by mimicking Boris’s pinched mouth.

“We’ll w—we’ll witness a-anything. Maaaan, we’ll be the best witnesses that you ever had, boy!” said Mike.

And then they were whipped away into the first cutaway, set in a courtroom, complete with costume changes. It was disorienting at first, but it played out as it should and the actors were beginning to get used to the unrelenting pace, but also realizing that it indeed was easier to just lean into the story and let it use them to execute the narrative. 

But narrative for whom? Who was the audience in this world? Or was this just the way people lived here? As game pieces for some unknown master? And was that so different from the way the Monkees were manipulated and crafted and paraded around in their world? Was it really two sides of the same coin? Peter was plagued by many of these very large questions, but he had neither time nor the bravery to really parse them as it was all happening in real-time. 

Davy noticed. He nudged Peter in the shoulder and whispered, “Hey, Pete … don’t get lost in there.”

“In where, Davy?”

“Your head, man. We need your focus here. Now. We all need to work together on this.”

“Yeah, I know. But thanks, Davy. I’m just … having some real heavy notions.”

“I get it, man. But save ’em for later. There could be a lot of ‘later’ if we don't somehow magically get delivered home after playing out this bloody farce.”

Peter looked at Davy with a panicked expression, but Davy had no comfort to give him except for a shrug.

_We have to get out of here. We just have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big kudos to the Sunshine Factory site for the [online transcript](https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/scripts/43-a-coffin-too-frequent) of the episode. Makes quoting lines a breeze.


	4. The Slow Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shooting day drags on for the Monkees. Everyone gets a startling reality check about what being a Monkee really means in this strange place.

“CUT!” David Winters yelled.

Mickey Morton leaned on the coffin and winked at the quaking Monkees. “That was really convincing, guys!”

“Too convincing,” said David, walking over. “Tone down the fear response a bit, guys? Micky, the scream was a bit over the top, okay, babe?”

“O-o-okay,” Micky stammered, holding fast to Mike’s arm and looking at Mickey uncertainly.

“Tone it down … right,” said Mike. “Just gimme a second while I restart my heart. Lookit the _size_ of that fella!”

“We’re almost there!” said David, walking back to the camera as the prop masters put the door back in place. “Let’s take it from when the guys are trying to leave the Pad and Mickey enters with the coffin. Then we’ll break for costume changes for the courtroom scenes.”

The Monkees looked at each other. “Courtroom scenes?” Micky whispered.

Davy furrowed his brow. “Does he mean … when we go to the Other Places?”

“Quiet, fellas. On your marks. Okay … ACTION!”

* * *

“Going to the Other Places” was what the band referred to as the times one of them made a joke or a comment and suddenly they were in another place, riffing on the concept. It was fun and while they expected it to happen, they never knew quite _when_ it would happen.

But this wasn’t fun. This time they really needed to refer to the script because there was nothing spontaneous or funny about having to riff on being “witnesses” by playing out a scene in courtroom, complete with scratchy wigs and fake accents.

By now the Monkees were coming to realize that they didn’t have the same abilities they had back in their environment. They couldn’t speed up or slow down time. They couldn’t make things float and they couldn’t turn into Monkee Men and fly away. They couldn’t blink their eyes and have changed clothes. No, they had to walk to a completely different part of the studio and be given different clothes and physically change into them. Everything was just … very flat. And everything seemed to take a really long time.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” Peter whined softly, scratching his head under the wig for the umpteenth time.

“I know, shotgun,” said Mike soothingly from his spot behind the witness stand. “I figure they gotta take a break and feed us at some point. We can rest a bit then.”

“Can’t we just split?” Micky muttered. “Like … create a diversion and just get outta here?”

“And go where?” Mike said.

“Go home!” said Davy.

Mike opened his mouth to reply, but then it was time to shoot again and he just shook his head at his friends. He knew there was no home to go back to. Their only shot was to stick to the script for now.

* * *

And finally it was time for lunch. Mike went to gather his bandmates and hopefully figure out where the food was being served because clearly they weren’t going to just appear there and they couldn’t look too lost.

But then he was approached by a PA who said, “Mr. Nesmith … you have a phone call. It’s your wife. She couldn’t reach you in your dressing room, so she called the production office.”

“Oh, okay …” Mike said, then did a double take. “Wait … did you say my _wife_?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, furrowing his brow slightly. “It’s lunch break, so I thought maybe you’d —”

 _A wife? I have a wife?! No, wait …_ he _has a wife. And she wants to talk to him. Oh, no._

“Uh … did she say what it was about?” he said, panicked, but trying to keep his voice calm.

“She said it wasn’t urgent, but she, uh … wanted to know what you wanted for dinner.”

“Um, can you take a message for me?” Mike said. “I gotta … I gotta …”

“A meeting?” the PA supplied.

“Yeah, a meeting. With … David. To go over some stuff. Tell her whatever she wants to cook will be just fine by me. I’ll just … see her at home.” Mike swallowed, the words falling off his tongue like lead weights. _This guy who pretends to be me on TV … he’s got a wife. Expecting him home for supper. This is real. This is heavy._

“Okay, no problem, Mr. Nesmith. I’ll let her know.”

Mike nodded, then looked around, frowning. “Hey … where’d the fellas go?”

The PA shrugged. “If they’re not eating in the commissary, then they’re probably in their dressing rooms. Or hanging out in the box.”

Mike nodded and pretended that he knew where any of those places were (what was “the box”??) and, biting his lip, hurried away, feeling nervous when separated from his friends and unable to keep an eye on them. He followed some people who greeted him and seemed to know where they were going. Other people said hello and nodded at him and tried to draw him into conversation, but he ignored them as politely as he could and continued to look for his friends.

And then Mike heard a familiar yelping that alarmed him, but also made his knees go weak with relief. “Mike! … Mike! MIKE!”

 _Peter_.

“Peter, I’m over here!” he called. “Where are you?”

Peter turned the corner and all but flung himself at Mike. “Mike … Mike!” he whimpered, clinging to the older boy’s arm.

“Shhhh-shhhh, it’s okay, Pete. You’re fine. What happened? Where’d you disappear to? I thought I told y’all we need to stick close together in this weird place! I can’t lose any of you!”

“We found these doors with our names on them, so we decided to go inside,” Peter stammered. “So I went into mine and there were all these people in there and it was really smoky and it smelled weird and they wanted me to smoke with them and some of them asked me for money and some of them were …” Peter lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially, “they were _naked_ , Mike!”

“Bleah!” Mike stuck his tongue out. “Yeah, that’s not for you, shotgun. None of this is for us. So, wait, you said you found some doors with our names on ’em?”

Peter nodded solemnly, still holding on to Mike’s arm.

“The dressing rooms,” said Mike. “These guys are big stars so they each get their own. All right. Let’s go find Micky and Davy …”

“Don’t let the naked people get me!” Peter blurted as they hurried away.

“Don’t worry. We’ll, uh … show ’em some clothes if they try anything funny. That should scare ’em off good.”

* * *

They took a few wrong turns, but Mike and Peter found “Mike’s” dressing room. He carefully opened the door and peered inside to make sure it was empty. He blinked and stepped farther inside, with Peter at his heels. “Now what in tarnation is all this?” Mike said, scratching his head. The room was dark and barely lit with a string of colored lights. The walls were covered in aluminum foil and black light posters, except for one wall, which was completely covered in safety pins.

“What is this place?” Peter asked softly, holding fast to Mike’s arm again.

Mike shook his head. “… my guy’s dressing room. It’s a little … uh … weird.”

Peter shook his head rapidly. “I don’t like it, Michael.”

“Me either, but for now I think it’s all we got. Unless Davy’s or Micky’s guys have some better decorating ideas. Wait here, Peter … I’m going to go find them.”

“I don’t wanna stay in here alone,” Peter whined.

“Hey, it’s all right, Pete. He’s got some magazines and, oh, well, lookit at that …” Mike picked up a framed photograph on the dressing table. Peter looked over his shoulder. “Hey, it’s you. But who are they?”

“I think that’s my … his … wife,” Mike said softly. “And little boy. Wow.”

“Mike … you have a wife?”

“I don’t have a wife, Peter. _He_ does. My guy. Beautiful girl. Cute kid.” Mike’s voice sounded wistful.

Peter, always sensitive to the emotional shifts of his friends, looked at Mike. “Are you okay?”

Mike hastily put the photo back and cleared his throat. “Yeah, buddy. I’m fine. I’m gonna go get Micky and Davy. I have a feeling they’re up to no good … or just in over their heads if we haven’t seen them. You just wait here right now. I’ll just be a moment. _Don’t go anywhere_.”

Peter nodded and looked nervously around the dark room as Mike shut the door behind him. He looked at the photo and paged through a magazine, but they were all about cars and Peter had no interest in that at all. But then he saw a couple of guitars and _oooh_ …

But before he could pick one up, he heard Mike’s voice, low and chastising and the high whines of Micky and Davy. “Miiiiike, no! C’mon, man … why … Mike!”

The door burst open and Mike shoved Micky and Davy inside. Both of them looked disheveled, their hair mussed and lipstick smears on their faces.

Peter blinked. “… guys?”

Micky and Davy looked at Peter. “What … your room didn’t have a girl in it?” asked Micky.

“Girls,” Davy said breathlessly.

Micky looked sharply at him. “You had more than one?”

Davy grinned impishly.

“My room had girls … guys … naked people … I didn’t like it,” Peter said uncomfortably.

“She put her tongue in my mouth,” Micky murmured. “That was weird … but I think I liked it!”

“I definitely liked it!” said Davy, glaring at Mike. “C’mon, you spoilsport. I was havin’ fun!”

“Guys!” Mike said sharply. “This ain’t for us … none of this is for us! It’s for these other guys who pretend to be us on television! Goodness knows why anyone wants to watch _that_. I guess some people dig watchin’ other people fail for entertainment. But there it is. And we can’t get distracted by all this shiny star nonsense.”

“But … we wanna be stars, Mike!” Davy argued. “It’s our big goal! And now we’re real stars, Mike. We’re stars _here_ , at least.”

“No, we ain’t!” Mike almost yelled, frustrated. “Don’t you understand? These guys … this fella who decided to decorate his dressing room with this insanity … he ain’t me! They ain’t us!”

Micky gazed around and grimaced. “Okay, you have a point. This is … weird.”

Mike sighed. “Look, fellas, I don’t think you understand because there’s a lot of cool stuff here to distract us, but I’m realizing if we don’t get back to where we belong … we’re in some trouble.”

Three confused faces looked at him. Mike sighed again, feeling tired. Sometimes it was really hard being the one in charge. He picked up the framed photograph and showed it to them. “Look at this. This guy … this other Mike Nesmith … he’s got a wife and a kid.”

“Awwww!”

“Foxy girl. Cute kid!”

“Fellas!” Mike exclaimed. “What do you think happens if we don’t figure out how to get away from here and back to our Pad by the end of the working day? I gotta go home to this woman and this child. I got her husband’s face and his name!”

“But … no!” said Peter.

“You aren’t married, Mike!” said Micky.

“No kiddin’!” said Mike. “But this chick is gonna expect her husband to come home at the end of the day. What happens if I don’t show up? She’ll think something awful happened to him. And what about you guys? These actor cats … they don’t live together like us. They’re not a real band like us. They all have their own houses and their own lives. Maybe some of you are married, too, but we don’t know! What’s ‘my’ wife’s name? I have no idea. I can’t exactly ask anyone here. ‘Hey, pal, what’s my wife’s name again? Gotta mind like a sieve these days.’”

Understanding began to dawn on their faces, but Mike pushed on. “Haven’t you noticed we can’t do any of our cool stuff here? Y’know, like when someone makes a joke and then we go to the Other Places and we’re dressed up and havin’ fun? Or makin’ things hover in midair or being able to change clothes just by thinking about it. We can’t do any of that here.”

Peter closed his eyes and screwed up his face hard, grunting with the effort.

“Pete, what are you doing?” Micky asked.

“Trying to take us to one of the Other Places.”

“Well, it ain’t workin’, shotgun,” Mike said softly. “We’re stuck here and we gotta figure out a way to get outta here before the end of the day. Before we have to separate and ‘go home.’”

The other three boys looked stricken at the word _separate_.

“But home is …” Davy said, trailing off.

“Here?” Peter finished.

Mike shook his head. “No, it ain’t. It’s all fake, guys. You’ve seen it. It’s all play-acting. Pretend. None of this is real. You get it? If we don’t get outta here … we gotta live these other lives. Yeah, we got money and fame, but we ain’t got the Monkees … and we lose each other. These guys have our names, but they ain’t us. What they got here ain’t what we have back there.”

“No!” Peter cried out, tears welling up in his eyes. “I don’t wanna split up! I wanna stay with you guys!”

Micky slipped an arm around him. “It’s okay, Peter. We’ll figure it out. We just got distracted.”

“Sorry, Mike,” said Davy. “I mean … it sounds pretty groovy on the surface, but I guess don’t wanna … live someone else’s life. Even if it means fame and fortune.”

Mike put the photograph back down. “We gotta get this cat home to his family. He’s probably real worried. At least we have each other here. But only for so long, so we gotta focus, fellas.” He spied a box of tissues on the dressing table and grabbed a couple, thrusting them at Micky and Davy. “Clean your faces up. Can we try to grab something quick to eat in the time we got left and get through the rest of this crazy day? I feel like if we can hang on and get through that script … it’s all gonna be okay. But we gotta stay focused.”

Micky nodded as he and Davy looked in the mirror and scrubbed the lipstick off their faces, spitting on the tissues to help it along. The makeup people would have to fix them up later.

Micky stared at his reflection as Mike’s words started to sink in. Did he have someone at home waiting for him? Surely not if he had girls waiting to kiss him in his dressing room, but … nothing really made sense here. He swallowed and felt his chest tighten with panic. It felt like the walls of the dark room were closing in on him.

“Mike … I can’t be in this room anymore. I can’t breathe,” he gasped. “I need to go outside. I’ll meet you guys back on set …” He opened the door and went out.

Mike paused for a moment, then gasped. “Micky, no …”

Davy looked at him. “Oh, no. Micky …”

They followed the anxious Monkee as he walked swiftly away, looking for an exit.

“Micky!” Mike called. “Micky … stop … wait …”

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, even more anxious.

Davy caught his wrist and dragged him along. “Just … come along, Peter. We can’t lose him. And we can’t go outside …”

People tried to stop and talk to them, slowing them down, and the three were able to shrug them off, but it separated them further from Micky, who was focused on finding a door … any door.

Mike started running. “Micky!” he yelled. “Micky … don’t!”

Micky found a door and stepped outside. Mike caught up moments later as high-pitched female screams filled the air. A hapless security guard outside tried to hold the fans back, but he was unprepared for an unaccompanied Monkee to burst outside and the girls swarmed him.

Micky’s eyes went wide as he realized his mistake. Fame and fortune … they’d talked about how they’d love to have girls swarm them, but the reality was very different.

“MICKY!” Mike cried, lurching out and grabbing for his friend’s arm.

“MICKY! MICKY!” the fans cried, clutching at him, then noticing Mike and screaming for him, too. Mike’s heart leapt into his throat and he yanked hard on Micky’s arm, tugging him back inside as he heard a ripping sound. The guard was able to hold off the fans long enough to free Micky, yelling, “What the hell do you think you’re doin’! You can’t be out here!”

The door slammed shut with Mike and Micky on the inside as another guard ran up. “What happened?” he said. “Jeez, I just stepped away for a second. You know you can’t go out that way!” He looked at Micky. “Oh, shit. Now look …”

Micky was missing a sleeve on his costume. “Uh-oh …”

The guard groaned. “Guys, I’m gonna lose my job …”

“No, you won’t,” said Mike. “This was our mistake … sorry, man. Don’t worry about it. We won’t say nothin’. Micky was just foolin’ … too much.”

“I …” the guard looked frustrated and angry, but also aware that he couldn’t lose his temper with one of the stars of the show that employed him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop you.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Micky said quietly. “I should have known better.”

At that moment, the door opened again and the outside guard thrust the torn sleeve back through at them as the screams echoed. “TAKE IT! I nearly got killed getting it back from them!”

The inside guard grabbed scrap of pale blue fabric and thrust it at Mike.

Mike accepted the offering, making an apologetic face at the guard and hauled Micky away. “Micky … it’s okay … you were freaked out. This place is getting to all of us. But we have a new problem now.”

Micky nodded, his eyes welling up. “I’m sorry, Mike. I just … this isn’t like the usual days we have. This place is really weird and I’m getting scared. It was fun at first, but not anymore.”

“I know,” Mike said softly. “I know, Mick. It’s not your fault, okay? You just wanted some air. And apparently these guys can’t get that so easy.”

“Wardrobe,” Davy said firmly.

They looked to the Brit. “Huh?”

“Wardrobe!” Davy repeated. “Where we went to get the courtroom clothes. We got the sleeve back” he examined the fabric and nodded, “ it tore along the seam — we can take it there and they can sew it back on. Because unless they got another shirt just like that one, the continuity will be all messed up and they’ll have to make a new shirt that matches this one exactly.”

“We don’t got that time,” Mike said. “Okay — forget lunch. We go to wardrobe and hope that we can get this sorted before shooting starts again.”

Mike saw the young PA he’d spoken to earlier. “Um, we had a mishap …” He pointed to Micky’s torn sleeve.

“Oh, man,” he muttered. “Gene’s gonna have a fit. Go get it fixed, please.”

All four Monkees stared at him. The PA furrowed his brow, but decided not to question it because these four boys were more trouble more often than they weren’t. “THAT way!” he said, frustrated, pointing. “First left, then right.”

“Man, all this walking is a drag,” Micky muttered as they headed off in search of wardrobe and apparently a man named Gene who was going to be very unhappy with Micky. “It’s so much easier to just appear places.”

“We coulda just conjured you up a repaired shirt, too,” said Mike. “But they seem to like to do everything here the hard way. But I guess they don’t know any other way.”

“I feel sad for them,” said Peter mournfully.

“I know, good buddy. So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat-tip to Micky Dolenz himself for providing descriptions of each Monkee's dressing room in his autobiography, _I'm a Believer: My Life of Monkees, Music, and Madness._


	5. Tea for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys continue to bumble through their day, first meeting with head of costumes, Gene Ashman, and then their encounter with the mysterious black box. Peter is nervous about shooting his first scene on his own, but is comforted by other crew and cast.

The Monkees found the wardrobe department again and before they could worry about figuring out which person was Gene, a man turned around, caught one glimpse of Micky, and rolled his eyes. “Micky! What the hell happened?”

Micky shrugged, embarrassed, and sheepishly held out the torn sleeve like an offering. “I … had an accident?”

“Yeah, what else is new,” Gene Ashman admonished, not moving in to take the sleeve, but instead opening a wardrobe and quickly sorting through hangers. “Can barely keep you in clothes, kid. You keep me on my toes, especially since you guys stopped wearing the uniforms. But I've learned my lesson — I know you got some more physical scenes in this episode, so I am … prepared …" He pulled out a hanger and showed Micky an exact replica of the pale blue tunic he’d been wearing all day.

“Oh, groovy!” Micky said, relieved. He'd been feeling really embarrassed about the stupid mistake he’d made in going outside even when Mike had been yelling at him to stop. He could be very stubborn when he got a notion in his head.

Gene gestured with his hand. “Okay, get that torn one off and I'll see about fixing that seam. But try not to destroy this one in the meantime, okay?”

Micky nodded obediently, fumbling with the button on the shirt’s high collar, shrugging the garment off, and putting the new one on.

Peter, Davy, and Mike hovered in the background. Gene regarded them curiously, wondering to himself why they all felt the need to hang around and wait, before helping Micky button up the new shirt at his throat, then smoothing down the fabric, standing back to look at him with a critical eye. “Yeah, I think I got the details just fine. Continuity shouldn’t be a problem.” Then he tipped Micky’s chin up with two fingers. “You need to get touched up. All of you, actually. Did you even get proper makeup done today? Go on and see Keeva next door.”

At the sound of his name, an older, white-haired gentleman popped his head out. “You rang?” He caught a glimpse of Micky and tutted. “You getting up to more mischief, huh? Come here and let me fix you up. All of you. Come along now.”

Keeva Johnson had a friendly, paternal nature and the Monkees each took their turn getting their makeup properly applied. They’d played dumb when Keeva had asked what had happened to their makeup he’d done when they’d arrived that morning. Because he’d made up the “other guys.”

The PA came and found them and was relieved to see Micky wearing an intact shirt. “Hey, guys. Mr. Winters says you can go hang out in the box while they use the stand-ins to get the lighting set up.”

Mike really wanted to ask what the box was, but knew he couldn’t. Instead, he asked, “What if we don’t wanna go in the box?”

The PA sighed and looked at Mike. “But maybe you could? We're running behind and … I just need you to not bust my balls today, okay, Mr. Nesmith?” Then the young man’s eyes widened he blushed scarlet over his outburst. “Oh god, I’m sorry … I’m really sorry … it’s just …”

“What’s your name?” Mike asked. 

“It’s Bill. Please don't get me fired, sir.”

“Jeez, Bill, you’re the second fella to say that to me today. Am I the really the kind of guy who goes around gettin’ people canned?” He genuinely wanted to know.

“Oh, no, of course not, Mr. Nesmith!” Bill stammered quickly and Mike wondered if he was telling the truth or not _. I wonder when you’re famous if anyone really tells you the truth, especially when it’s ugly?_

“This job is a great opportunity,” Bill continued. “It’s just … intense. But it’s nothing I can’t handle and I know it’s nothing compared to what you guys —”

“It’s okay, Bill,” said Mike, cut him off, patting the young man on the shoulder. “Take us to the box.”

“Thanks, Mr. Nesmith.”

“Listen, Bill, how about you call me Mike today? I may change my mind tomorrow, but today is today.”

“Oh … okay, Mike.” Bill was flustered enough that he didn't think to question why the Monkees needed to be directed to the box.

* * *

It really was a box.

A giant box in the middle of a studio. Mike watched as Bill gripped the handle and heaved the door open. “Has anyone ever mentioned that this thing looks like a meat locker?”

“Oh, that’s exactly what it is, Mike!” said Bill, stepping aside to let them go in. “Easier to soundproof, I guess. I mean, it’s not frozen inside, of course. But let me know if you need the thermostat adjusted. But it should be very comfortable.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, thanks,” Mike said uneasily.

“Watch for the lights — we’ll call you when it’s time to come to set and shoot. Oh, hey, do you want me to send some girls in?”

Davy said yes at the exact moment that Mike said no.

“Oh, come on, Mike!”

“Davy … we talked about this!” Then Mike angled his chin at Bill, indicating to Davy they needed to watch what they said. “We got work to do today. Just the four of us. Right? Stuff to talk about. No distractions.”

Davy looked at Micky, who shrugged helplessly. He wouldn’t have minded having some of those groovy girls around, too, but there was no changing Mike’s mind. And besides, deep down, he was right. It was risky interacting too much with the people in this world.

Davy pouted as the Monkees all fully went inside the box and Bill shut the door behind them with a heavy _clank_ that made all four boys jump.

They cautiously stepped farther inside and looked around at the black-painted walls adorned with black-light posters.

“Y’know, fellas,” Davy remarked, impressed in spite of his temporarily soured mood, “this is really kinda groovy.”

The air was cool and fresh inside and it had furnishings in each corner and an array of large cushions on the floor. There was a stereo system, and guitars and a drum kit. And food! Micky let out a _scraw_ sound like a bird of prey and made to swoop for the catering.

“Yeah, it is pretty groovy,” Mike said, looking around, finding something about the arrangement of the room to be a bit off, but unable to put his finger on it. “But … what’s it for? And what was it that Bill said about lights?”

Micky shrugged, mumbling around a mouthful of sandwich, “A place for them to hang out, I guess? It’s bigger than the dressing rooms. And soundproofed. So I guess they won’t bother anyone.”

“And we can play music!” Peter said, gazing at the array of instruments.

“And … spend time with girls,” Davy muttered.

“Cool it, Davy,” Mike said. “The more people we talk to here, the bigger chance we have of blowing our cover.” _Though I’m not sure anyone would believe us even if we came right out and confessed. But we can’t take any chances._

“Who said anything about talking,” Davy muttered. Micky grinned and threw a cushion at him.

“Hey!” Davy giggled and tossed one back. Then hucked one at Mike a little harder than maybe necessary.

“Come on now!” Mike said, but he grinned and threw one back. Davy dodged it and it hit Peter in the face. Micky made an amused “oh-oh” face. “Get ’em, Pete!”

A full-on pillow-cushion war ensued as the Monkees threw themselves over and behind pieces of furniture while whipping cushions back and forth. Peter attempted to build a pillow fort, but Micky kept ambushing his efforts. They were laughing and having fun for the first time that day, really, when a flashing yellow light caused them to go still.

“The lights …” said Mike.

“What does it mean?” Micky asked.

“I think it’s how they … summon us …” said Davy. “If this thing is soundproofed, they can’t exactly call for us, right?”

It was then that they noticed that each Monkee had a designated corner of the room with their own light and furniture.

“That’s weird,” Micky said.

“Why are they all … separated from one another?” Peter asked.

Davy bit his lip. “Is it just me or does it seem like maybe these actor chaps aren’t really mates like we are?”

“I think you got it right, Davy,” said Mike, frowning. They all looked at each other sadly and suddenly the strange box didn’t seem quite so groovy anymore.

The light was still flashing. Mike was about to volunteer to go out to see if maybe the yellow light was for him, but then the door cranked opened and yet another PA poked his head in.

“Mr. Tork!” he called. “You’re needed on the set! It’s your scene with Miss Buzzi! They put the light on for you!” He sounded very anxious.

Peter looked at Mike, panicked at the notion of having to go on the set all by himself. “Mike?” he whimpered softly.

Mike walked over to him, patted him on the shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “You’ll be fine, buddy. Everyone is real nice to us here, right? We’re the stars. No one is gonna do anything bad to you. You remember the scene we saw in the script, right? With Miss Ruth Buzzi and all the teacups? She seems like a nice lady. Just go in there and do your best. If you make a mistake, David will tell you how to fix it. He’s nice, too, right?”

Peter nodded, but his face was still worried. Mike smiled as reassuringly as possible. “Off you go, Pete. They’re waiting …”

Peter nodded again and slowly walked to the door, gulping as he took one last glance over his shoulder and followed the PA out the door.

The _clank_ sound seemed even louder this time. Micky and Davy moved in close to Mike and they stared at the door. It was deadly silent inside the box and they suddenly felt very alone.

* * *

Peter wrung his hands as he meekly followed the PA onto the bedroom set where his very strange day had begun. He looked at “his” bed longingly and wished he could go to sleep in it, and wake up back in the real Pad. But with the guys. He didn’t like being away from them in this place. He didn’t like leaving them all alone in that weird box.

“Okay!” said David. “Pete, man, we need you guys to watch for the lights, all right?”

“Sorry,” Peter whispered.

David furrowed his brow slightly, seemingly surprised by Peter’s cowed response, and gave him a friendly smile. “No sweat, brother. It’s all right. Just hop up on the bed there and Jack will get you set up with the props.”

Peter nodded and climbed up on the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard, where someone had thoughtfully placed a pillow.

A dark-haired older man came approached, pushing a cart laden with teacups and saucers of various shapes and sizes. “All right, Peter, it’s teatime!” He smiled and Peter smiled back. He’d received a lot of tight, fake smiles from other people since they’d arrived here, but this was a real one. Whoever Jack was, he seemed nice. Peter relaxed a fraction.

“Wh-what do I have to do?” he asked hesitantly.

Jack looked at him curiously. “Well, at the moment, you just gotta sit here and let me pile these teacups all around you. But, y’know, that’s what you’re supposed to do. What you guys usually do ends up being something completely different most of the time, right?” He winked and Peter didn’t understand why.

He watched as Jack began to place teacups around him on the bed. “Are they … I’m not very good at … I spill a lot,” he finally said, embarrassed.

Again, Jack paused and gave him a curious look. “What’s up with you kids today? Are you doin’ a bit? You’ve all been acting extra kooky all day. Attached at the hip and … actually doing what you’re told. Acting like this is your first day.”

Peter gulped. _Oh, no!_ He was going to give them away. Peter was a terrible liar. He just didn’t know how to do it right at all.

He looked at Jack’s kind face and suddenly blurted out. “I’m … Peter Tork, sir!”

Jack laughed and reached for another teacup. “Oh, I see. Nice to meet ya, Peter Tork. I’m Jack Williams, property man. Charmed, I’m sure.”

“No … you don’t understand,” Peter babbled, unable to stop the words even as he knew he shouldn’t be saying them. “I really am Peter Tork. The real one! This really is my first day. I don’t know what to do, Mr. Williams. And I’m going to spill all that tea and break the cups and ruin everything, I just know it. I think Mike should do this scene … I just wanna go home, dig?”

Jack stopped what he was doing a third time and looked keenly at Peter. The kid was acting really weird. And that was saying a lot because Peter Tork was a weird kid on any given day. But right now he looked very upset and agitated. Probably high, but Jack was used to Peter’s behavior when he was high, and this was different. He was usually more mellow and prone to spouting nonsense philosophical rhetoric between scenes. However, who knew what this kid was getting his hands on during his free time? The boys’ antics bothered some of the crew, but for the most part they were well-liked and Jack was personally very fond of them. They were a handful, but at their core they were good boys and didn’t mean to make trouble. They were just very young and energetic and their quick rise to stardom had taken the usual toll it did on young people. Jack Williams had been in the business for a long time and very little surprised him now.

So, if the Monkees were doing a bit and staying in character all day for whatever reason they’d concocted — probably boredom — he’d play along. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “You’re gonna be just fine, Peter Tork. The teacups are just props. They won’t have real tea in them — in fact, they’ll be empty, so you can’t spill anything. And look” — he picked one up and held it upside down, demonstrating how the cup remained fastened to the saucer — “I glued these ones together that are going to be on the bed. You just gotta worry about the one in your lap and then Miss Buzzi is going to hand you at least one or two more. Just keep taking them and do your joke. You get to deliver the punchline for once. Okay? Piece of cake.”

Peter beamed at the older man. “Oh, I like cake.”

Jack grinned as he put the last few cups down. “I like you, kid.” He patted Peter affectionately on the cheek. “Break a leg.”

Peter’s eyes flew open wide. Jack chuckled and pointed a finger. “Not literally. Just means ‘good luck’ in actor-speak, remember? You be good.”

Peter nodded and smiled at him. “I will. Okay … thank you, Mr. Jack!”

Jack shook his head ruefully, grinning as he pushed his cart away. _Crazy, crazy kids_.

And then Peter was joined on the set by Mrs. Weatherspoon/Ruth Buzzi. She smiled at him as she settled into the chair next the bed and carefully arranged her shawl. “You ready, Peter?”

Peter nodded. “Oh, yes, ma’am. Jack explained everything to me. Look!” He picked up one of the glued-together prop teacups. “So they don’t come apart. And there won’t be real tea in them.”

Ruth cocked her head and looked curiously at Peter in the same way Jack had, but she’d been warned about the atmosphere on the Monkees set and had come prepared for most anything. This was her kind of scene, anyway, and she’d been having a good time playing off the boys, though they seemed a little raw for a cast that was well into its second season.

“You can call me Ruth, you know,” she said, chuckling.

Peter shook his head. “Oh, no, my mother brought me up to be respectful to old people. I mean … old … I mean … my elders!” He blushed, frustrated.

Ruth let out a peal of laughter. “You guys are truly a riot! I love it!”

Peter stared at her, confused. At that moment, Keeva hurried up to Ruth. “Oh, my,” he said. “Just a little touch-up. Your wrinkles are unwrinkling!”

“Oh, thank you, Keeva, dear. This darn youthful glow is so hard to contain!”

Peter’s brow furrowed as he watched Keeva deftly wield some powder and brushes to Ruth’s face. And then it clicked. “Oh my gosh, you’re not an old lady at all!” he exclaimed. “It’s just makeup! Far out!”

Ruth laughed again, but very carefully, so as not to ruin the artist’s work. “Hey, give the kid a gold star!”

Keeva chuckled good-naturedly. “This one givin’ you any trouble, Ruth?”

“Aw, heck no. He’s a sweetheart. Me ’n’ Pete are getting along famously, right?”

Peter nodded, smiling. “I think you’re the nicest people I’ve talked to all day.”

Keeva shook his head ruefully and Ruth grinned at Peter after the makeup artist moved away. “Boy, you guys really commit, huh? Staying in character all day? I couldn’t do it!”

 _Oh, that is a good excuse_. _Yes_. Peter nodded. “Yes, ma’ — I mean, Ruth. That’s what we’re doing today.”

“Okay!” David Winters yelled. “Let’s get a move on, folks! Quiet on the set …”

“Hope you like pretend tea! I got lots!” Ruth whispered conspiratorially before raising a cup at Peter and smiling.

Peter smiled back. She really was nice. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fun to include some real crew members into the story. From many accounts the cast and crew got on very well. Property man Jack Williams plays the customs man in "The Monkees Mind Their Manor." See about roughly four minutes into the episode. I was watching this great breaking-fourth-wall sequence and how the boys seemed fond of Jack, and how he got into the spirit of the bit. He's riffing on Dean Martin, who always used to close his show with a rendition of "Everybody Loves Somebody." And Micky responds by screaming like a fangirl and jumping on his back :D
> 
> Makeup man Keeva Johnson makes a cameo in one of the many Monkees post-show interviews. He commented that he was the father of sons and so he felt very warmly toward the boys. Davy especially was very affectionate and physical with him in that bit, and there seems to be some father/son dynamic there, which is very sweet.
> 
> Finally, costumer extraordinaire Gene Ashman. I made up the detail about him producing backup clothes for Micky, but it just seemed like a thing that wasn't completely impossible ;-) I feel like with all the roughhousing the boys got up to, he was getting visits to mend wardrobe quite a bit. 
> 
> I never thought I'd be writing fanfiction about Ruth Buzzi, but here we are! I'm a long-time fan. 
> 
> Thanks to all who are still following the story. I'll have the "mirror" chapter for the actors up before long, but it still needs some work.


	6. Two for Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Micky make an important discovery that allows the actors to exercise a bit more control over their situation. Maybe even have a little fun.

“Help!”

Micky and Mike looked at each other. They’d been waiting for Peter’s cry for help since Mrs. Weatherspoon had bodily dragged him upstairs — showing surprising strength for an actual little old lady. But, then again, none of the usual rules applied here. 

Usually they were happy when a scene just called for one of them because it gave the others a break. But the idea of Peter being taken upstairs and out of their line of sight made Mike and Micky slightly nervous. Davy was understandably preoccupied with the soft-shoe routine he was going to have to perform with Boris over on the bandstand. But at least they could keep an eye on him there. Mike wasn’t averse to jumping on the giant man’s back and taking him down if things went off-script. 

“I don’t wanna do this!” Peter had protested as Mrs. Weatherspoon grabbed his hand in a wizened claw and dragged him up the staircase. “This gag is lame, anyway! Death by tea? It’s stupid! I protest! Tell Stella if I don’t make it out!”

“Quiet!” Micky hissed. “Stick to your lines!”

“Oh, I don’t ____ing care anymore!” Peter snapped as he was dragged into the bedroom. 

And then the narrative compelled Davy over to make nice with Boris. Micky and Mike had done their “aspirin” gag with Henry at the coffin. And now they were wondering what happened when other characters didn’t have scenes that were supposed to be simultaneously taking place during scripted moments. Like with him and Mike in this moment.

Turned out … absolutely nothing. He and Mike looked at each other in surprise. 

“Well, whaddya know,” said Mike. “We get a breather for a sec. Assuming Frankenstein over there doesn’t try to squash Tiny.”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Micky said.

“With all the free time we’ve had since we started this charade?”

“Well, yeah. I’m just thinking about what really goes on in the show. Like … we should be able to do cool stuff, right?”

“Cool stuff?” Mike scoffed. “There is little about this show that’s cool, man.”

“You know what I mean. All the sight gags. Special effects stuff. Like when we quick-change clothes and Peter always ends up in the wrong outfit. Or the flying Monkee Men. Or making time stop. Stuff like that.”

“Yeah, so? That’s for those cats who belong here. We’re just regular people.”

“But we did that cutaway all by ourselves. Before we activated the story, remember!”

Mike furrowed his brow at Micky. “And what are you suggesting exactly? We just try to ‘think it’ and see if it works?”

Micky shrugged. “Might as well. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”

Mike chuckled somewhat nervously. “I … uh … you go first, okay?”

Micky nodded and he concentrated really hard and felt a strange sensation wash over his body.

Mike gasped, a hand flying up to the side of his face.

Micky looked down at himself. He was dressed in a tuxedo and top hat. “Holy ____, it worked!” he said.

Mike grinned from ear to ear. “That’s wild, man. Okay, lemme try.” He closed his eyes and it was Micky’s turn to gasp as Mike blinked away for a moment and then he was dressed in the biker gear they’d worn in “The Wild Monkees.” He looked down at himself and laughed. “Far out!”

For some reason, Micky felt compelled to look over at Mr. Schneider. The dummy winked at him. “Well, you coulda said something sooner!” Micky complained.

“Huh?” Mike said.

“Ah … nothin’, man. C’mon, let’s see if we can do it again.”

Of course, it quickly became a competition. To see how fast and how many different things they could come up with. Rain gear, mummys, gorilla suits, medieval knight armour, doctor, football player, it went on. And they were laughing hysterically and finally had to stop quick-changing because they couldn’t breathe from laughing. They collapsed on the floor, Micky as a circus strong-man and Mike as a Mexican wrestler. And then they looked up and saw Davy dancing with Boris, singing “Tea for Two” and they were overcome by the giggles again. Everything was so strange and absurd.

But then Peter cried for help and Davy broke away from Boris and Henry. There was an edge to his tone that was cause for concern. What if that batty old lady really was trying to drown him with tea?

Micky and Mike kept trying to run up the stairs, but the narrative had them in lifeguard outfits, then firemen, then the Keystone Kops, and finally they all made it up there. Mrs. Weatherspoon was bodily shoving Peter down every time he tried to sit up under the plastic tenting. Davy and Micky hustled over and pulled him away from the old lady.

“Easy, easy, baby. Easy, there,” Micky soothed.

“Whoa. Heavy,” Peter groaned, sitting on the bed.

And then Mike came into the room and said, “Okay, okay, okay, TIME OUT, everyone.” He clapped his hands and Mrs. Weatherspoon, Boris, and Henry froze in place.

Micky laughed. “Outta sight, Mike!”

Mike looked down at his hands. “I wasn’t totally sure that was gonna work.”

Micky stood up and waved a hand in front of Henry’s face. “Henry … hey, Henry, baby!” Henry remained frozen in place. Micky turned to Mike, grinning. “You stopped _time_ , man!”

Peter stared at Mike, agape. Davy’s brow furrowed. “I … what … how the ____ did you _do_ that, Mike?”

Mike shrugged. “We got Monkee powers, man. We all got ’em. Micky and I figured it out downstairs while you were doing your twinkle toes routine with ol’ Boris. I thought maybe we all needed a bit of a break from this storyline.”

“Definitely!” said Peter, looking over at the mountain of teacups and shuddering.

They left their so-called castmates in their frozen state and filed back downstairs onto the main floor of the Pad.

Mike went for a drink of water and the others realized that was an excellent idea. Micky started poking around for food.

“They never got any decent food on the show,” said Mike. “What makes you think you’ll find anything edible in this joint?”

Micky turned around, brandishing a box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. “Apparently we still shill for cereal in this timeline, too.” He shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He thrust his hand into the box, came with a handful of dry cereal and shoved it into his mouth.

“No, thanks,” Davy sniffed.

Peter shrugged and reached for the box. “Gotta keep our energy up.”

Micky pulled it out of his reach and Peter made to protest, but Micky shook his head. “Hang on. I wanna try something.” He threw the box up in the air and focused on it. The box froze midair.

“Whoa!” Peter exclaimed.

Mike and Davy gaped. “Can you make it stay like that?”

Micky shook his head and the box fell to the floor. He picked it up and handed to Peter. “Naw. I have to concentrate on it. I don’t think it works like stopping time.”

After snacking for a few minutes, Micky and Mike showed Davy and Peter how to quick-change outfits and they all played around with that for a while before taking a break to rest.

“We oughta get back to the story soon,” Mike said.

“Not yet,” said Peter. “There’s another thing I wanna try with these far-out powers.”

“What’s that, Pete?” said Davy.

A slow smile spread over Peter’s face. “Do you wanna see if we can be Monkee Men?”

“Oh, I hate those stupid tights!” Davy scoffed.

“Yeah, but …” Peter looked at them and raised his eyebrows.

Micky’s mouth dropped open. “We might be able to fly!”

“No way, man,” Mike said disbelievingly. “That’s crazy.”

Micky laughed. “Like everything about this world isn’t totally bonkers?”

“We have to try it,” Peter said earnestly. “Come on. There will literally never be another place where we can make this happen. No harnesses. No wires. We might be able to really fly.”

Mike looked unconvinced. Micky nudged him with his shoulder. “We can’t get hurt, Mike. It’s Monkee-land. No one gets seriously injured. No one dies. Remember? Come on. Let’s try it.”

They walked out onto the sundeck and stood facing each other. They grinned nervously, then quick-changed into the Monkee Men costumes.

Peter stepped up to the railing of the sundeck and looked back at his friends. They joined him and stood in a row, looking out over the ocean.

“Guys …” Peter murmured in shock.

“Oh my,” said Mike.

“Holy ____,” said Micky.

Everything was frozen. The seagulls were suspended in midair. The ocean was frozen mid-wave. There was no wind. Mike had really stopped time entirely.

“That’s … unsettling,” said Davy.

Micky shrugged. “We’ll restart it soon. But until then …”

“Do you think we’ll be allowed to fly out of the Pad?” Mike asked suddenly. “Like how it stopped us when we tried to go out the front door.”

Micky remembered Mr. Schneider’s wink and shook his head. “I have a feeling we’ll be allowed to do this. If we can do it at all.”

“Well, here goes nothing,” said Peter. He held his hands up in the air and called out, “Up, up, and awaaaaay!”

He jumped up and flew into the air.

“Holy ____!” Mike cried out, laughing in disbelief and then he jumped up and flew off in Peter’s direction.

Micky and Davy stared at each other, delighted, and soon they were airborne as well.

Their movements were hesitant at first, but they realized they weren’t going to fall to the ground if they stopped focusing. They could really, truly fly.

Micky let out a whoop and did a somersault. Davy tried rolling onto his back and flying that way.

“We’re doing what no human being has ever done before in the history of the world!” Peter cried, ecstatic.

Mike was speechless. He stretched his body out and flew through the air. Even though the wind had been stilled by his freezing time, the air obviously still existed (they’d in trouble if it didn’t) and he took his hat off and let the air stream through his hair as he moved. He smiled and, for the first time that day, let his anxiety temporarily slip away. His worry about how they’d gotten here and if/how they were going to get back so he could be reunited with his family. This was a magical moment and he was going to let himself enjoy it. It was absolutely exhilarating — like every flying dream he’d ever had since he was a kid, but better. He felt free. More free than he’d ever felt in his entire life.

They spent maybe an hour in the air, sometimes together, sometimes flying further afield, but not wanting to stray too far from one another.

But finally they gathered and decided it was time to return to the Pad and resume the story.

“Hey, guys,” said Micky. “Are any of you wondering if …”

“If we just flew away and kept going?” Peter said.

“Yeah.”

“We can’t do that,” said Mike.

Micky shrugged. “ _You_ can’t do that.”

“Micky,” Davy said. “You wouldn’t really …”

Micky shrugged again. “Not really. I mean … I guess I just wonder … what would happen.”

“I think you’d just get returned to the Pad,” said Peter slowly. “The story would take over at some point.”

“You okay, Micky?” Mike asked.

Micky nodded. “Yeah, no … I’m fine. It’s just … it feels free out here. When was the last time any of you felt free?”

“I know,” Mike said softly.

“It’s a trip that we’re having this conversation suspended in the sky,” Peter said.

Davy tugged on Micky’s sleeve. “C’mon, mate. You stay with us. We need to go back and finish the story. And see what happens then. We keep assuming we’re going to get sent back by the end of the script, but we don’t know that for sure. You may not like the notion of staying here if it’s the only choice you have.”

Mike nodded solemnly. “C’mon, Mick. Let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Micky said quickly, plastering a smile on his face to reassure the other Monkees. “I was just thinking out loud.”

Peter patted him on the shoulder and they reluctantly flew back to the sundeck and landed easily.

“That was incredible,” said Davy. They all looked at one another and broke into giggles and found themselves leaning in for a group hug. If they managed to get home, no one would believe a word of what they had seen and done today — especially the flying part. But it was an experience they would carry with them for the rest of their lives.


	7. The Home Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The script and time are running out. Micky gets a hard lesson in stage-fighting. Both sets of Monkees are just trying to make it to the end in the hopes that they will be returned to home where they belong. But there are no guarantees of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I switch back and forth between the two worlds in this chapter. The subheadings should make it clear. Asterisks mark internal breaks.

_At the Pad_

Micky jogged in place, loosening up his arms, shaking his head. “Ohhhh, he’s big, Mike. I don’twannadothisMike. Reallydon’twannadothis, ohhhhh, he’s so big … Miiiiike … if we make it back home I will hunt down Stella Linden personally for writing this scene … oh ___ …”

They were going increasingly off-script in terms of dialogue, but it didn’t seem to matter as long as the narrative was fulfilled. It wasn’t like they followed the actual scripts to the letter at all anymore, anyway. Sometimes Mike didn’t even bother reading them all the way through. They all felt the same in the end.

“It’s all right, Mick …” he attempted to reassure the anxious Monkee, who was about to fling himself at the solid wall of human flesh named Boris. “Remember what you said to me earlier before we went flyin’? We can’t get hurt here. You’ll be fine. Just … try not to think about it. Less thinkin’, more doin’. You’re good at that.”

“Yeah … yeah … thinking bad … so bad … okay … I’m gonna do it … frontal attack … here I go!” Micky closed his eyes and ran headfirst at Boris. Mike grimaced, raising his hands to his face.

And then …

 _Smack_.

“MIKE! MIKE, MY HEAD IS STUCK. IT’S STUCK. OH HELP! MIKE!” It wasn’t clear exactly _how_ Micky was stuck, but it was what the script called for and by now Mike could tell the difference between show-Micky’s comical yelps of fear and actor-Micky’s panicked cries for help. They were deeply unsettling coming from a person who generally had such a sunny, humorous attitude toward life. 

Mike stepped forward and took Micky by the shoulder and pulled, and well, heck, he was stuck and but good! Mike lifted his leg, bracing a foot on Boris’s muscular thigh and wrenched back, taking Micky back with him.

“What the …?” Mike said.

“Do I gotta do it again? I don’t wanna do it again, Miiiiike,” Micky whined.

“C’mon, Micky … one more time. Get that big brute.”

“I’m gonna sock it to him, baby. The triple head reverse,” Micky said gamely, bouncing on the soles of his feet like a boxer.

“Keep your right up,” Mike said, demonstrating with Micky’s arm. “Keep your right up. Right. Alright. Keep your left a little low.

“Left low, baby.”

“And keep your head down.”

“Head down.”

“Head down. Okay.”

“I can’t see anything,” Micky mumbled.

“Not … not that low.”

“All right, not that low.”

“Okay,” Mike said, “you go in there and give him your famous triple reverse twist! Go!”

Micky went.

Mike watched, and grimaced once again, lifting a hand to his face as Micky was spun around and thrown back at him, groaning.

“I’ll, uh … see if I can think of somethin’ else,” Mike muttered.

* * *

_On the set_

“WHOOF!” Mickey Morton’s breath was knocked out of him in a great gush as Micky Dolenz barreled headfirst into his midsection. He went down like a sack of potatoes — Micky with him.

“CUT!” David yelled. “WHAT THE HELL, DOLENZ!” He, Mike, and some stagehands rushed over. Mike got there first and reached for his Micky … his primary concern. “Mick … y’all right?”

“Owwwwww!” Micky complained, rubbing his head. “That really hurt, Mike!”

“Of course it hurt!” David snapped. “What was that, man? Why did you headbutt him for real? I know you guys have been staying in character all day, but this is too much.” He looked at Mickey Morton, who was being helped to his feet. “You okay, Mickey. I’m so sorry about this. I think there’s been some crossed wires.” _Goddammit, we’re gonna get sued_ , he thought.

Mike helped Micky to his feet, whispering in his ear, “Micky … you were supposed to just pretend to hit him! Play-acting, remember? Like when Ruth pretended to knock you out with her umbrella?”

“But I can’t believe I knocked him over,” Micky said incredulously. “I’m a shrimp … he’s a skyscraper!”

Mickey Morton let out a snort of laughter. “Pretty strong for a shrimp,” he wheezed, but with good humor. “But if you’d given me a bit of warning, I might have put up a bit more resistance. You suckered me!”

“I’m real sorry,” Micky said sincerely, his face also showing genuine remorse. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? It was an accident. I just … got …”

“Overexcited,” Mike finished.

On the edge of the set, Gene Ashman let out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “I knew I was right to make an extra shirt. Jesus, they’re on a tear today.”

Jack Williams, who was standing nearby, shook his head, chuckling. “You’re tellin’ me. You never know what to expect from them, but today is … different. I dunno what it is.”

“Like we’re back on day one, but it’s more day one than day one in this loony bin ever was,” Gene remarked.

Jack nodded. “These kids may turn out to be better actors than any of us ever expected …”

*

“Action!” David called as the scene marker clicked.

“Oh, does your head hurt?” Ruth Buzzi, in character as Mrs. Weatherspoon, asked Micky.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Micky said, then shook his head, moaning, “yes, it hurts. It hurts.” It really did hurt in a way he’d never experienced before.

“I’ll give you my famous Egyptian head banging cure,” said Ruth.

“Right, right, right,” said Micky.

“Hold your hands over your eyes.”

Micky obeyed. “Fine. Hands over eyes.”

“Now stick out your feet.”

“Stick out my feet?” Micky asked, then did as he was told. “Right. GAHHHH!” He yelled as Ruth stomped on his right foot with all her might — which was a surprising amount for such a small woman.

“I’ll bet you’ve forgotten all about your head, haven’t you?” said Ruth gleefully.

“No more head, doesn’t hurt at all!” Micky said, then shrieked and doubled over. What was happening?

“Cut!” David yelled. “Micky … you okay?”

“Just fine!” Micky squeaked, hopping around on his left foot.

Ruth shrugged, grinning mischievously. “It looked like we were method-acting? Wanted to see if Dolenz got as good as he gave!” She shot a wink to Mickey Morton.

Micky’s head whipped around and he glared at Peter, who was watching, stricken, from the sidelines. “I thought you said she was _nice_ ,” he hissed.

Peter shook his head and shrugged helplessly.

Micky limped off to the side and found himself face to face with a laughing young man who had been acting as his stand-in that day.

“Oh, man! You okay, Mick?” he said, still laughing, patting Micky on the shoulder.

“Uh … yeah … yeah … I’ll be fine. Just need some crutches,” Micky joked weakly. He had no idea who this person was, but he seemed to know the other Micky quite well.

The young man looked at him in the curious way everyone was looking at the Monkees today at some point. “Yeah, sure. Hey … we’re still on for tonight, right?”

“Huh?” Micky said, confused.

“The party … tonight!” the man said, now looking equally confused. “We’ve been talking about it all week.”

“Forget it, Ric,” Jack Williams remarked, as he passed by with his prop cart. “The guys are ‘in character’ all day today.”

Ric rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “ _Again_? Okay, fine … but you’re off the clock once this wraps, okay, Dolenz?”

“Yeah, yeah … sure …” Micky said, chuckling faintly, still preoccupied by the burning pain in his foot and his head.

Ric patted his shoulder again before walking away. “You guys are weird together … you know that? Real weird cats.”

* * *

_At the Pad_

“Oh, this last romp’s gonna be rough,” Micky groaned.

“We have to climb into the coffin. It’s twisted, man … I thought that before all this madness started,” said Davy.

“No ____ing way,” said Mike, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on, Mike … it’s not like it’s a real … uh …” said Micky, trailing off.

“It’s a _real_ coffin, and I said it to David and I’ll repeat it again here: no ____ing way,” said Mike. “Even the story can’t make me do that. I’ll let Henry throw lit candles at me instead.”

“Well, here we go, lads,” Davy said, stretching. “Home stretch … we hope?”

* * *

_On the set_

“Cut! Okay … that’s a wrap, folks! Good work today! Thanks, everyone!” David called out. There was a burst of applause from cast and crew and the Monkees joined in after a moment of hesitation. Lights began to turn off and people began milling about, getting their things together and preparing to depart for the evening. 

The Monkees were still standing in the middle of the Pad set, looking around at the goings-on.

“What now?” Davy asked quietly.

“I was … kinda hoping we’d just … be taken away now,” said Micky, his voice edged with anxiety.

Mike bit his lip and unconsciously fidgeted. He really didn’t know what to do now. His leadership and calm bravado were at an end. And he was thinking about how if something didn’t happen soon, he’d be expected to leave his friends to find a car he didn’t recognize and drive to a house he didn’t know and spend the night with a family that wasn’t his. The thought paralyzed him with fear.

Peter looked around at his worried friends — his very best friends — and furrowed his brow, thinking, his tongue poking just outside of his mouth. “Hmmmm.” He broke away from the group and headed to the other side of the set, a determined look on his face.

“Peter?” Mike called after him, confused.

Peter stopped in front of Mr. Schneider and looked at the dummy’s still face. “I know Mike says that everything here is fake and it’s all play-acting, but I don’t think that’s completely true,” he said very quietly, pulling up a chair. “Because we could sure use some help right now, Mr. Schneider. We did the best we could all day. We think we did what we were supposed to do, anyway. It’s time to go home, don’t you think? You always help us out. Please tell us what we have to do now.” He crossed the fingers of his right hand for good luck, and squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment before pulling Mr. Schneider’s string with his left.

The dummy’s eyes blinked and its head turned just slightly. “Time to think inside the box, dear boy,” he said mechanically, the voice coming from somewhere inside him as Peter was used to. Mr. Schneider had been part of the séance scene, but he’d been manipulated by a stagehand. And he’d overheard someone saying that the dummy’s voice, when it was used, was added in post-production, whatever that meant.

Peter frowned at Mr. Schneider’s reply. But then Mike was by his side. “The box!” he exclaimed. “He’s sayin’ we gotta go back to the box! Peter, you figured it out!”

“Hey, way to go, Pete!” said Micky, clapping Peter on the shoulder.

“Yeah, that was some good thinking!” said Davy, smiling. 

“Man, Pete, what on earth would we do without you, huh?” said Mike, grinning, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders as the bass player stood up, beaming with happiness. 

“Thanks, Mr. Schneider!” he whispered over his shoulder and they strode away, headed for the black box.

The dummy winked.

*

They quickly made their way back to the box, trying to avoid attention and distractions. 

Ric Klein jogged by and slapped Micky jovially on the arm as he passed, calling over his shoulder, “Hey, man, see you tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, groovy!” Micky called back. “Can’t wait!”

Ric grinned and waved, seemingly relieved to get a “real” response from Micky.

Mike looked at Micky, who shrugged. “He’ll be seeing the other Micky, right?”

Peter heaved the door open and they all slipped inside, shutting it firmly behind them.

They stood in a huddle, facing each other.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Davy whispered.

“It has to!” said Mike determinedly, hanging on to the last shred of hope. “C’mon, fellas … we can do this.” He slipped his arms over Micky’s and Davy’s shoulders, encouraging them all do to the same until they were all connected, huddled close.

“Now just concentrate,” Mike said. “Think about the Pad. The real one. Think about where we wanna go.”

They all closed their eyes and focused — each Monkee’s face melting into a smile as a familiar sensation washed over their bodies.

* * *

_At the Pad_

“Yeah, I didn’t — yeah, I didn’t know you could play the horn, man,” said Peter to Micky. “You ought to do it with a group.”

“I don’t play the trumpet,” Micky replied.

“Huh?” said Peter.

Micky delivered the very last line of the script. “It’s the coffin!”

They all coughed dramatically for a few moments and then stopped.

The room blinked away for a moment and then it came back and every trace of Henry, Boris, Mrs. Weatherspoon, and Elmer’s coffin was gone. Like they’d never been there at all. The show was over.

But Micky, Davy, Peter, and Mike were still in the Pad. They hadn’t been magically returned home. Nothing else had changed from the moment they’d arrived. They all looked around, confusion overriding any sense of panic for the moment.

“Well, ____,” said Davy. “What now?”

Micky shook his head. “No … this isn’t right. This is what we were supposed to do. I’m sure of it.”

“We can’t be sure of anything here,” Peter said softly. “It was a really groovy theory, Micky. But maybe —”

“No … no!” Micky insisted. “Mr. Schneider said … he said …” Micky stood and stormed across the room to stand in front of the dummy. “Mr. Schneider,” he implored. “We did the story. We did the whole thing. We … figured out the Monkee powers. We learned how to FLY, man! You said the ending cannot be achieved until the beginning commences! Well … we commenced! Now we need the ending!”

But Mr. Schneider remained inert. He hadn't needed his string pulled to communicate with them so far, but Micky tried it anyway. Nothing.

Micky resisted the urge to kick the stupid, creepy puppet to the floor and turned around to face his friends, nearly in tears of frustration.

“What do we do now?” he choked.

Mike felt the same as Micky, but it was very rare to see Micky get truly upset about anything. He was generally so upbeat and tended to use humor to work through negative emotions. Mike stepped over to him and touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, Micky.”

“No, it’s not!” Micky cried. “It’s not okay! I … I told you guys that this was how we were going to get home. I really thought this was what we were supposed to do. But what was it all for, huh? Are we really stuck here forever?”

Davy raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you wanted to stay here …”

Micky tensed up, clenching his fists, and Mike squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Cool it, Davy. C’mon, guys … I know this is freaky, but turning on each other now ain’t gonna make things better.” He glanced over at Peter, who was sitting in the lotus position on the carpet with his back to them, lost in thought.

“Pete … hey, Pete, man … what say you?”

“Understanding is the path to liberation …” Peter murmured.

“What’s that again?” Mike asked.

Peter unfolded his legs and turned around to face them. “That’s the other thing Mr. Schneider said. So … what did we come to understand at end of this experience? What did we learn? It’s something … it has to be.”

“We’re taking instruction from a ____-ing puppet, man!” Micky cried, angry and distraught. “It’s all bull___! Buddha, my ___!”

But then they heard a sound coming from just outside the front door. It sounded like … cheering.

“What’s that?” Davy asked, getting to his feet.

Peter slowly rose as well. “It sounds like …”

The door burst open and another Peter Tork burst inside, locking eyes with … Peter Tork.

“ … us …” whispered Peter.

The new Peter froze in place and then there was a cacophony of noise as the other three Monkees crashed up behind him and they all fell into the Pad in a tangle of yelling and arms and legs.

The other three actors stepped up to stand in a line with Peter, staring at their counterparts on the floor as they flailed and groaned, extricating themselves.

“Whatever it is we’re supposed to learn … I think it’s about to happen,” said Mike softly, grinning in amazement.


	8. The Adventure of the Eight Monkees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight Monkees. One Pad. The actors and characters meet for the first time and figure out how to send the actors home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update this final chapter. It is 3x as long as the last one! Thanks for sticking with this fic. It's been a challenge, but I've loved nearly every minute of it. ... nearly ;-) 
> 
> I realized in putting all 8 Monkees in the same room I had to differentiate between them. So it's "Show-[name]" vs. "Actor-[name]." Hopefully it's not too confusing!

The actor Monkees froze stiff as the show-Monkees flailed and groaned, wondering what just happened.

Actor-Peter leaned forward hesitantly and reached out a hand to his counterpart, who stared up at him, and grinned. “It’s you!” he cried.

Actor-Peter grinned. “It’s you!”

His twin took his hand and actor-Peter pulled him up and show-Peter tumbled into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You’re here! And we’re here! It’s all okay!”

Actor-Peter chuckled softly, confused, a little unsettled, but unable to resist his counterpart’s innocent charm. Perhaps really understanding it for the very first time. “Okay for you, maybe,” he mumbled, uncertain.

Show-Peter pulled back to grasp his shoulders, beaming into his face. “No! It’s really all okay! If we got home, then you’ll get home, too! It’s going to be okay!”

Actor-Peter found himself beaming back at his counterpart. “You think so … yeah … I think you’re right … um … hi …”

“Hello!” show-Peter cried, flinging his arms around him again. “It’s really nice to meet you! But … I have … questions …”

“I’m sure you do …” actor-Peter said, chuckling. “So many …”

“The naked people …” show-Peter whispered, blushing.

Actor-Peter blushed furiously. “Oh, no … did … oh ___ … did they …”

Show-Peter pulled back again. “Did they … what?”

Actor-Peter searched his counterpart’s face and saw nothing in terms of understanding. “They … nothing. They just don’t like clothes all that much.”

“I know! I split before … I could find out why. I didn’t want to know.”

Sighing in relief, actor-Peter tugged his twin close again for another hug. “Oh … thank ___” He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of protectiveness for the naive “dummy” of the show.

And then they stepped back again, smiling at each other. Actor-Peter smiled in amazement and chuckled, shrugging. “So … what was it like for you guys? On the set? Was it scary? And, uh … where did you find the naked people?”

“It was scary at first,” said show-Peter. “I was really sad about our house disappearing. But Mike told us what to do.”

The actor nodded. “Mike always knows what to do.”

“And we acted out the story and I met Mr. Jack and Keeva and Ruth and they were all really nice, groovy people.” Then the character blushed faintly. “The naked people were in your dressing room …”

“So you didn’t end up at my house?” Actor-Peter asked.

Show-Peter shook his head vigorously. “No. We were trying really hard to get back home before we had to split up and go to our … your … houses.” He looked curiously at Peter. “Why are they naked and why were they asking for money?”

Actor-Peter shrugged with a small smile. “Naked is natural, man. It’s how we come into the world. People get too hung up on nudity. It’s not all about sex.”

The character blushed furiously at the mention of the word _sex_.

“And, uh, well, I get a lot of money for this …” the actor was going to say “silly job,” but realized this might sound insulting to his counterpart, whose actual life was what Peter portrayed on screen “… gig. Like … a lot more than maybe I should be getting. And I know lots of people who don’t have anything. So I share what I have, dig? If you have too much and people don’t have enough, you ought to share.”

Show-Peter nodded, then skewered Peter with the honesty in his warm brown eyes. His own eyes … yet not. “Do you ever worry they’ll stop being your friends if you stop giving them money?” He paused for a moment, brow furrowing, struggling to sort his words out. “I … I don’t have any money. But if I did have some and any of the guys needed it, I’d give to them in a second. All of it. If they really needed it and it helped. I’d do anything for them. But I also know that they like me just fine even when I’m broke. Which is all the time, pretty much. You dig?” He looked keenly at the actor, who was struck by the intensity of his gaze.

The actor nodded, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, yeah … I dig, man. The fame trip, it’s … I dunno … I’m just trying to do what I think is right.”

“As long as you try, that’s all you can do,” show-Peter said. “Someone told me that, but I can’t remember who.”

“Probably Mike.”

Show-Peter grinned. “Yeah. Probably Mike.”

Meanwhile, the other actors had hesitantly stepped forward to greet their counterparts as they picked themselves up from the floor.

Micky the actor was in a tailspin, nearly in tears of angry frustration moments earlier, and now faced with the impossible reality of looking at his exact double.

In appearance, anyway. Show-Micky peered at him and then his face expressed distress. “Oh … oh, no! It’s okay!” he said, concerned, stepping boldly forward, wrapping his counterpart up in a warm hug, as well. “Don’t be sad … we’re here now. And that means you can go home, too. Promise! It’s all going to be fine.”

Actor-Micky let out a choked laugh, a few tears escaping his eyes anyway, though he was the furthest thing from sad now. He hugged his twin back, allowed himself to be comforted … by himself. Oh, this was weird. “How’d you know?” he said, his voice thick with emotion even as he smiled so wide his face might split.

Show-Micky stepped back, but held actor-Micky’s shoulders, smiling. “Because I’m you, man. Well … sorta. It’s uh … pretty different over there.”

“Were you scared?” actor-Micky asked softly.

His twin nodded, letting his arms drop. “Yeah. At first. I mean … we woke up and half our house was gone and there were all these strange people in our room!”

Actor-Micky grinned in spite of himself. “Far out,” he said.

“No kidding! But Mike figured out what was going on pretty quick.”

“We figured he would,” actor-Micky said.

“It went okay. It was kind of boring, to be honest.”

The actor laughed. “It was anything but over here. Everything goes so fast. It was like a whirlwind!”

“I know!” his counterpart grinned at him. “Isn’t it groovy? Did you … figure out how to do … stuff?”

Actor-Micky nodded excitedly, picking up his twin’s enthusiasm. “Yeah, man — we turned into the Monkee Men and we went flying! It was far out. You can’t … you can’t do that where we’re from.”

“Such a drag,” show-Micky sympathized. “Lots of things you can’t do there. But we did okay. Except … I made a mistake.”

“Well, we all make mistakes, but …” the actor trailed off, remembering who he was talking to. “… what kind of mistake?” he asked warily.

“Oh! It wasn’t … I mean …” show-Micky shrugged sheepishly. “We were hanging out in Mike’s dressing room …”

Actor-Micky grimaced slightly. “Ooh.”

“Yeah. And I got a little freaked out. Claustrophobic, I think?”

Actor-Micky made a sympathetic face. “Who could blame you? It’s uh … kinda weird in there.” _Thank god Phyllis doesn’t let him decorate the house …_

Show-Micky nodded vigorously. “I know, right? So … I just needed to go outside for a second …”

“Oh, no,” actor-Micky said.

“Yeah. Mike told me not to …”

“You always have to listen to Mike, Micky! You know this!” actor-Micky blurted.

“I know!” show-Micky whined. “I was stupid … I went outside …”

“The guard let you!” actor-Micky exclaimed.

His counterpart shrugged. “He wasn’t there in that moment.”

“Oh no. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Show-Micky shrugged. “But my shirt got ripped. So we had to go see Gene …”

“Oh, no,” actor-Micky groaned. “Did you make Gene mad at me?”

Show-Micky looked guilty. “… a little bit?”

Actor-Micky groaned. “I’ve been so good lately! I’ve been really trying to like … not destroy wardrobe. As much.”

Show-Micky looked down at his shirt. “Well, he said he could fix it. The girls tore the sleeve off, but Gene had made an extra.”

“Smart man.” Actor-Micky nodded, then shrugged. “I hope some of it was fun, at least?”

“Oh, sure!” said show-Micky. “It was cool to be a real star for a day. And I, uh … met one of your girlfriends … back there.”

“I don’t really have a girlfriend, per se,” said actor-Micky, “I …”

“You know what I mean,” said the other Micky, raising his eyebrows, mouth quirking at the corner.

Actor-Micky’s mouth unconsciously crooked to the side as well. “Well … did you have a good time with her?”

“I got dragged away by Mike before I got a chance to really find out! But, uh … yeah. I mean … you’re so lucky, Micky.”

“You think so?”

“Of course, yeah,” said his counterpart, slightly frustrated. “You … you made it, man! People love your music and you got all these girls … you’re famous and rich. And … I wish I could … I kinda didn’t wanna leave.”

Actor-Micky shrugged. “… for what it’s worth, man. Sometimes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s hard to explain. I mean, the money and the chicks are really groovy, but sometimes … I wish I was living your life. Just … being at the Pad and on the beach with my best friends. Well … like how we are on the show. I … kinda didn’t wanna leave either at one point. When we were flying.”

“Those guys aren’t your best friends?” asked the other Micky curiously.

“No,” said actor-Micky. “I mean, we get along good for the most part. I mean … I do. Me ’n’ Davy are pretty tight. But … it’s not like how it is on the … I mean, with you guys. We’re just four kids who got hired to do a job. We try to get along, but we’re all pretty different. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes a lot.”

“Oh,” said his counterpart, suddenly looking at Micky with an expression that could be only be read as … pity. “That’s a bummer, man.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Well … I hope that part gets better.”

“Me, too. I hope … I hope you guys make it. I think you will. You saw how people liked our music over there. I think you’ll get your break.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Hey, I got a question,” said actor-Micky. “I’ve always wondered … where are you from?”

Show-Micky looked confused. “Where am I from? I’m from … here.”

“Well, yeah, I know that. I’m from here, too. I mean … do you have a mom and dad?”

Show-Micky laughed. “Well, of course I do! Everyone has a mom and dad.”

“What are their names?”

“The names of my mom and dad?”

The actor had always been curious about the Monkees’ backstory on the show. It was never explained how they met and formed the band or where they came from (except for Mike being from Texas and Davy being from England — since nothing could cover their accents and it was part of their appeal).

Show-Micky fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowing. “I … I … I’m not … I mean, Mike has an aunt Kate. We met her in Texas, and Davy's grandpa from England and I …” he looked at actor-Micky, stricken. “Why don’t I know the names of my mom and dad, Micky? That’s not right, is it? Why can’t I remember?”

 _Uh-oh._ Once again, actor-Micky’s curiosity and penchant for asking too many questions was causing trouble again. “Hey, hey, it’s okay …” he said, soothingly, patting his twin on the shoulder. “You’ve just had a really heavy day, man. Don’t worry about it. I ask a lot of dumb questions.”

Show-Micky, nodded, swallowing, managing a wan smile. “Yeah … me, too. I guess that’s it, huh? Just a long day. I’ll remember later.”

“Of course you will. It’s no big deal,” said actor-Micky, desperate to calm his counterpart. _You wanted to know if they were as one-dimensional as they are on the show and now you know, but he’s also somehow a real kid with feelings. You’re a jerk._ He quickly changed the subject. “How’d you like acting with Ruth Buzzi? And what’d you think about our big box!”

The character’s face lit up, seemingly to immediately forget his previous distress. “My foot still hurts! She was … she’s a strong lady!”

“What … your foot? What did she do? What did _you_ do?!”

* * *

The two Mike Nesmiths were less demonstrative. Show-Mike stepped forward, extending his hand. Actor Mike returned the gesture and they shook hands, nodding at each other. “Well, hello there.”

“Sure glad to see you,” said actor-Mike. “How did you manage to get back?”

“Peter confronted Mr. Schneider and he finally gave us a hint.”

“Is that so? Mick was tryin’ to get him to tell us what to do and he wouldn’t make a peep.”

Show-Mike chuckled. “Yeah … he does that. I’m guessing that you fellas weren’t meant to leave before we got back. I guess we’re supposed to meet.”

Actor-Mike sized up his twin, still confounded by the reality of it. “I guess so. Peter … our Peter … was sayin’ something about some lesson we’re supposed to take away from all this.”

Show-Mike nodded. “Well, yeah, sure. It’s the point of all this, ain’t it?”

“I don’t see what the point of any of this has been,” the actor retorted.

“Really, man?” said his counterpart, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re gonna look me in the eye and say that you didn’t take away any kind of conclusions about what you experienced today?”

Actor-Mike shrugged stubbornly. “What … you have some kind of grand epiphany or something? Am I gonna have to answer for you when I get back?”

His character peered at him curiously. “Oh, man. I’m starting to see it now.”

“See what?” actor-Mike said defensively.

“Why some of the people were tip-toeing around me all day on the set. Why some people looked at me like I smelled bad. You’re kind of an ornery sourpuss, ain’t you?”

“You don’t ____ing know me,” the actor sneered.

Show-Mike shrugged blithely, unaffected by his counterpart’s turn of mood. “Naw, I don’t. And I’m thinking maybe I don’t care to.” He shook his head and looked into his twin’s eyes. “Man, you really hate your job, don’t you.” His tone was flat, not asking a question.

“What?” actor-Mike said, alarmed. “How did you … I mean … it’s not like —”

“Naw, shotgun,” said his counterpart. “You _really_ hate your job. Wasn’t hard to figure out by the way people acted around me. Like I was a bomb about to go off. And I wonder … why do you do it? If it’s so darned lousy. Why? What’s the point?”

“It’s not that it’s so lousy,” he muttered. “It’s just … not what I really wanna be doin’.”

“So, what do you wanna do?”

“I wanna be a musician. I wanna make my own music.”

“You’re in a band, man. You’re makin’ music. I saw all those girls outside the studio. Nearly lost a limb rescuing Micky from ’em when he wandered out there. I saw the magazines. They send those pretty journalists in to ask you what your favorite color is. You’re in a famous band.”

Actor-Mike shook his head. “Ain’t a real band, though. We’re just pretending to be you guys.”

His twin threw his head back and laughed. “Man, why on _earth_ would you wanna pretend to be _us_? Out of all the acts in the world! That’s the part I don’t get. We’re just this struggling group that no wants to hire most of the time. But we’re making music. You wanna make music … go make some!”

“Ain’t that simple, man,” actor-Mike argued. “I … I got responsibilities …”

Show-Mike nodded. “Yeah. You got that pretty wife and boy.”

The actor drew in a startled breath and his character raised his hands in supplication. “Cool out, man, I didn’t meet ’em or nothin’. I saw the photo in your dressing room. And, um … she called for you on set.”

Actor-Mike blinked. “What … did you talk to her?”

“Naw, naw, of course not. She just, uh …” show-Mike trailed off for a moment, smiling warmly and looking at actor-Mike “… she wanted to know what you wanted to eat for supper.”

The actor let out a breath of relief. “Oh, that’s all? Thank ___.”

“Whaddya mean, _that’s all_?” asked show-Mike crossly. “Man, you know what I’d give to have a knockout like that call me up and ask me what _I_ wanted for supper, huh? I bet she’s a dynamite cook, too. And a good mom?”

The actor flinched. “Yeah … ’course. ’Course she is. Phyllis is … she’s wonderful.”

“That’s her name, huh. Pretty name for a pretty girl. Well, I’ll tell ya that I was pretty scared I was gonna have to go home to that pretty girl and pretend to be you. Now realizing I probably couldn’t have pulled it off. I ain’t no real actor. And I bet you got a real nice house and a real nice car and some real fancy friends …”

“Well —” the actor started, but was cut off by the character.

“You know what I got?” Show-Mike hooked his thumb over his shoulder at his bandmates. “I got these knuckleheads looking to me to figure out how we’re gonna eat every night.” He shrugged and smiled a little. “And I wouldn’t trade ’em for nothin’. They’re my best friends. They’re my family. We look out for each other and we like the music we make. And another thing …”

Actor-Mike rolled his eyes. “What, you ain’t dressed me down enough already?”

“Your job … it really is lousy!” And show-Mike burst into laughter.

Actor-Mike stared at him for a second, then began to hoot with laughter as well. “It really is, man! It’s so stupid!”

“It’s really boring!”

“It’s SO boring!”

The two Nesmiths slung arms over each other shoulders and sank to the floor in hysterics, drawing the attention of the other six Monkees.

“You okay over there, you two?” asked actor-Micky, grinning.

“Yeah, we’re all right,” replied actor-Mike, wiping away a few tears of mirth. Then turned and looked at his counterpart. “Okay … you’re right. I did learn something. Maybe my job is lousy, but at least I get it to do with these guys. Maybe they ain’t my best friends or my family, but we’re in this together. And we … kinda figured that out even more today. Cuz … you live in some kinda freaky space, man. This place is … wild.”

Show-Mike’s mouth quirked. “Maybe. But you can do some pretty groovy things. I hope you figured that out. Otherwise you can’t leave until you try it out.”

“Oh, no, we did … I mean … Micky did. Micky figured out almost everything.”

“Is that so?” replied the character, looking curiously at actor-Micky.

“I know it’s supposed to be me, I mean, you, I mean … whatever …” said actor-Mike. “But in this case, Mick really came through for us. I’m … grateful.”

Show-Mike blinked and look at the actor. “Now, why do I get the feeling that you don’t say stuff like that very often?”

“I never do. And don’t you tell a soul. Ain’t there some kind of weird twin-code about that?”

“There is now.”

“Right on, brother.”

* * *

Likewise, the two Davys regarded each other warily, but in a friendly manner. They both chuckled nervously and settled on a quick handshake.

“You made it through a day on the set, yeah?” asked actor-Davy. “What was that like? Was it a complete disaster?” _What kind of mess are we going back to?_

“It was a trip, man,” enthused his counterpart. “Weird. But pretty groovy. The girls, man …” he let out a low whistle.

The actor grinned. “Yeah, I was wonderin’ about that. You met some of the girls on the set?”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

“Well, I was makin’ some pretty good time with these girls in my … our … sorry, _your_ dressing room, but Mike came in and pulled me away. Said we ought not to be messing around when we weren’t the people who … well who people thought we were. I know he was right, but …” show-Davy trailed off bitterly.

Actor-Davy rubbed a hand over his face. “Captain Bringdown strikes again. Oh, man. Girls … _plural_? Did you get their names?”

“Naw … they weren’t interested in talking, if you catch my drift.” Show-Davy gave a cheeky grin.

“Oh, boy,” actor-Davy sighed. “Short blonde with a mole on her cheek and a funny laugh? Tall redhead?”

“Yeah, that’s them!”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Problem, mate?”

The actor shrugged. “I been trying to ease off with them. I had eased off with them, but they’re persistent and now they’re gonna think … anyway … I’ve been seein’ this other chick. For a while now. And it’s getting serious. I’m trying to be good. I really love her, you know? No, wait … you don’t know …”

“Hey, I know about love!” show-Davy retorted.

“No offence, mate, but you know ____ all about love,” said actor-Davy affectionately, patting his twin on the shoulder. “It’s all stars-in-your eyes and then it’s over before it even begins. But you’ll find the real thing someday, I bet. Until then … you go out there and have a blast.”

Show-Davy scowled for a moment, sensing he was being condescended to, but also acknowledging that he’d never felt that way about anyone romantically. His affairs were brief and forgettable. But fun!

“So, what’s it really like, man? Being rich and famous?” show-Davy asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, it’s a gas, man … it’s …” — actor-Davy trailed off, realizing he was instinctively slipping into the canned responses he had been trained to give to fans, journalists, and even sometimes his own family, who were happy for Davy’s success but expressed concern about his well-being. And now … why not be painfully honest? — “it’s really hard sometimes. Really, really hard. And I know that sounds daft. Or maybe really selfish.”

“Selfish? How d’ya mean?”

The actor chuckled ruefully. “I mean … there are people struggling to make rent … people fighting in wars … I got me own TV show and make a lot money because I can sing and dance and people think I ’ave a nice face.”

Show-Davy shrugged and smiled impishly. “It is an awfully nice face.”

The actor laughed and unconsciously nudged his counterpart affectionately. “But yeah, man … havin’ a lot of bread is terrific. I got a lovely house and cars … and the women …”

“The women …” show-Davy sighed.

“Yeah, but my girl … my steady … that’s another thing about the fame trip. I gotta keep her a secret. The fans get real upset when any of us pair off. I mean, except for Mike … you know our Mike is married, yeah?”

“Yeah,” show-Davy replied. “That’s … weird.”

“I suppose it would seem that way to you.”

“But you like it, right? Bein’ rich and famous?”

“Sure I do!” actor-Davy laughed. “Oh, yeah. It’s real groovy. Just sayin’ that it’s not all fun and easy living. It’s hard to just … live. Hard to be a person. It’s hard to explain, but I can’t even go back to England and visit me own dad without a huge amount of hassle and planning.” He looked own at his hands, fidgeting with this fingers. “Hard to know if anyone really likes you for yourself or just because you’re a famous face.”

“But your girl …” his twin asked.

Actor-Davy smiled. “Yeah. My girl. Linda. She’s on the level, man. I ain’t lettin’ her go if I can I help it.”

“And you got the guys. The Monkees,” show-Davy said, indicating Davy’s castmates.

“I, uh …” the actor trailed off a moment, then nodded, smiling. “I do, that. I got them. They’re the only ones who really get it. What it’s like to live the way we do.”

Show-Davy shrugged. “From what I can see, you got it all, mate. A girl, friends, a band, fame, money …”

Actor-Davy smiled at his counterpart. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But you’re gonna be all right, mate. You got your band and your friends. You get out of every wild scrape you ever been in. The Monkees always win. They always save the day.”

Show-Davy looked curiously at his counterpart. “Who ever said I wasn’t gonna be okay? I’m always okay.” He smirked. “Wished I was doin’ better than okay sometimes, but I like me life. I like it a lot.”

* * *

Their conversations were interrupted abruptly by a loud rapping on the front door. All eight Monkees looked over, but only four of them flinched. 

“It’s Babbitt!” show-Mike hissed. “He’s after the rent!”

“Hit the bricks!” whispered show-Micky, flinging himself to the floor. 

“Open up!” Babbitt yelled. “I know you’re home … I could see some of ya through the window! I’ve come for the rent and I swear if you don’t pay up this time, you’re through!”

Davy and Peter squeaked and huddled together fearfully. “We don’t have the money. What are we gonna do?”

The actors watched the goings-on and actor-Mike chuckled. “Okay, hang on just a moment there … stop!” He clapped his hands to freeze time. The rapping stopped abruptly.

Actor-Micky opened the door to reveal a frozen Babbitt, mouth open mid-yell, his hand fisted to knock on the door. “Nicely done, Nez!”

The show-Monkees shared a glance, frowning and mouthing _Nez?_ in confusion.

Actor-Micky closed the door in the frozen landlord’s face and walked back over to the group. “Can I ask you a question? Have you ever paid rent on the Pad? Like … ever?”

Show-Mike furrowed his brow, thinking about it. “Well … see … well, we surely must have at some point … but I don't remember …

Show-Davy shrugged. “Mostly I think we just find a way to distract him from the task.”

Actor-Micky laughed. “Well, that answers the long-standing question of how a broke rock group affords a nice beach house like this.”

“That may be so, but what are we gonna do about Babbitt now?” show-Micky asked. 

“Not to worry,” said actor-Mike, grinning devilishly and holding up his index finger. “I have a plan … c’mere …”

And all eight Monkees got in a huddle to plan their first and last caper all together.

* * *

And when actor-Mike unfroze time, they were ready. The two Mikes answered the door.

“Well, hullo there, Mr. Babbitt, sir!” they said in unison. “How can we help you?”

Babbitt was mid-yell, but his mouth went slack as he stared at the twin Nesmiths. “Say ... what’s the big idea?” he said. “What’s going on? Why are there two of youse?”

“What’re ya talkin’ about?” the two Mikes answered in perfect unison. “There’s only one of me as usual, Mr. Babbitt. You sure you ain’t seein’ double?”

Two Mickys wandered by, each clutching a sandwich in their left hands and chewing in unison. “Oh, hi, Mr. Babbitt!” they both mumbled around the food in their mouths, waving with their right hands as they headed to the kitchen.

“What … wha?” Babbitt exclaimed, rubbing his eyes dramatically.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Babbitt?” the two Mikes asked, furrowing their brows identically. “You ain’t feelin’ well or somethin’?”

“Hiya, Mr. Babbitt!”

The landlord turned his head to see two Davy Joneses beaming at him.

“Hey, Mr. Babbitt, I’ve been working on a new dance routine. You wanna see?” And the two Davys began to tap-dance in unison while the two Mikes clapped along to the beat.

“Oh, that’s really groovy, Davy!” called out two Peters as they came out of the downstairs bedroom, each holding an acoustic guitar. They began to play along as the Davys kept dancing, the Mikes clapped, and the Mickys waved their arms.

Babbitt’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he tried to take in the Monkees times two. Finally he waved his arms in the air and bellowed, “Stop, stop, STOP!”

All eight Monkees went still, then approached him in unison, but not close enough for him to get the idea to reach out and touch them. Babbitt stared at them, agape.

“Gee, Mr. Babbitt,” said the Peters. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you need a doctor?”

“A doctor, yeah,” said the Mickys. “That’s a good idea, Peter.”

“We don’t want anything to befall you, Mr. Babbitt,” said the Mikes. “You’re our favorite landlord, after all!”

“Y-y-y-yeah,” Babbitt stammered, backing up and fumbling the door open behind him. “I ain’t feelin’ so hot all of a sudden, fellas. I’ll … uh … come back later …” He fled through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

The eight Monkees waited a few beats until they were sure Babbitt was out of earshot, and then they hollered with laughter, doubling over and slapping each other on the backs.

“Oh, that was incredible!” wheezed actor-Mike.

“The look on his face!” hooted show-Micky.

“I was a little worried that he’d notice the guitars weren’t exactly the same …” said actor-Peter.

“But that’s why we had you two come out last,” gasped actor-Davy, wiping away a tear of mirth.

“Nicely done, chaps,” giggled show-Davy. “That was really groovy.”

“Not too shabby if I do say so myself,” said actor-Mike proudly. “I dare the writers to come up with better.”

They all laughed a bit longer, grinning at each other, but gradually they settled down and an unspoken question finally came to the surface.

“So … what now?” asked actor-Davy hesitantly.

Show-Mike shrugged and looked over at Mr. Schneider. “Whaddya think, Mr. Schneider?”

“Understanding is the path to liberation,” the dummy said pleasantly.

Suddenly, the four show-Monkees paused for a long moment, then smiled. The actors looked at them, confused.

“I think you’re okay to go now,” said show-Mike.

“… how?” asked actor-Peter.

“Out the front door, of course,” said show-Micky.

“Oh, no, I’m not falling for that trick again!” retorted actor-Micky. He looked at actor-Mike. “How about you go first this time, o’ fearless leader?”

“All right, all right,” said actor-Mike, sighing, and walking up to the front door and opening it. But then he looked back at his friends. “But … I ain’t goin’ alone. Come on, fellas.”

Actor-Micky came up behind him and smiled. “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay. Come on. We all go together.” And he reached up and took Mike’s hand in his, then extended his back to actor-Davy. “Come on. Like in kindergarten.”

Actor-Davy laughed, then shrugged and took Micky’s hand and reached back for Peter’s.

The four show-Monkees looked on, amused.

“Y’all will be fine,” said show-Mike. “Oh, and one more thing …”

Actor-Mike looked back at his counterpart.

“Y’all just go and make everything so complicated when it don’t gotta be. You wanna make music … go make music. Simple as that. And I told your wife that whatever she wanted to make for dinner was just fine by me.”

Actor-Mike let out a soft laugh, nodding.

“Look at y’all,” said show-Mike. “You got the world on a string and you don’t seem to really see it. I’m happy to stay here with my pals. Maybe we won’t be on the cover of _Tiger Beat_ , but at least we know who and what we are. I hope y’all find what you’re lookin’ for. I really do.”

And, for the first time, the actors understood what it felt like to have “Mike Nesmith” put things into perspective.

“Think we’ll ever see each other again?” asked actor-Peter.

“Anything’s possible,” replied show-Micky. He looked back at Mr. Schneider and they all followed his gaze.

The dummy winked.

Show-Mike grinned and shrugged. “They’re right. Anything’s possible here, man.” He gave a wave and the other show-Monkees followed suit.

Actor-Mike looked at the open door, took a deep breath and stepped through. There was no obstruction this time. And, one by one, each actor Monkee disappeared until Peter was the last to go.

The four show-Monkees let out a sigh of relief. Mike closed the door firmly and looked at his friends. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m goin’ to bed!”

The other three murmured agreement and went to do just that. Being a TV star in that hard world was about the most exhausting thing they’d ever experienced.

“They were pretty nice, though, weren’t they?” said Peter.

“I guess so,” said Mike. “But, man, they got … a lot of stuff goin’ on. Hollywood actors! They’re all the same, I swear …”

* * *

Mike Nesmith felt very weird as he stepped out the door of the Pad. Everything fell away and he felt like he was falling even though his body stayed fully upright. He clung hard to Micky’s hand — the only solid thing he could sense in those dizzying moments before he felt solid ground beneath his feet again. He’d unconsciously squeezed his eyes shut and had to take a few moments until he felt brave enough to open them and see where they’d ended up.

It was very dark, but as he focused, he was able to see Micky, Davy, and Peter standing near him, all of them still clutching each other’s hands, eyes closed and breathing hard. Mike lifted his head and he broke out in a wide grin. They were in the box! The box didn’t exist in the other place. They were back!

“Fellas,” he croaked. “Fellas … we’re …”

“We’re home,” Micky sighed, letting out a rattling laugh, releasing Mike’s and Davy’s hands.

“Oh my god,” murmured Davy. Then grinned before trying out a few more cuss words. “Oh my god! Bloody fucking hell, we’re really back!”

“Oh, shit,” whispered Peter. “Oh, thank god. We made it.”

They all stared at each other for a few wordless moments, then broke out in laughing and cheering, hugging each other in different combinations, slapping each other on the back, nearly in tears of relief.

Mike ran a hand over his face, bracing a hand on his hip. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t think that we’d … wait … just gotta check …” he strode to the door and heaved it open, stepping out … onto the set. He gave another sigh of relief.

The other Monkees followed him out, each expressing relief at further proof that they were back where they belonged. They turned to face each other, nearly overwhelmed by what had happened to them today and the knowledge that they’d made it through to the other side.

“I’ll say it again,” said Davy softly. “… what now?”

“I guess we go home,” said Micky. Then clapped a hand to his face. “Oh my god, I’m throwing a party at my place tonight. Shit … Ric must be wondering where the hell I am.”

“I think we all realize that we can’t tell anyone about what happened,” said Mike quietly. “They’ll think we’re absolutely insane.”

“They already think that,” said Peter. “I’m not entirely certain we aren’t insane and didn’t just hallucinate the whole thing.” But his mouth quirked in a rueful smile because he and the rest of them knew it happened. It really happened. But no one would ever believe them.

“Well, that’s the good thing, I guess?” said Micky. “If we ever get wasted and end up saying anything about it, people will just think we’re making up stories and being weird. Like we always are.”

“It would be a helluva bit, doncha think?” said Davy cheekily. “We could really blow some minds.”

“Okay, okay, okay, that’s enough for now,” said Mike, holding up a hand. “Let’s just … recover from this first, okay? I need to go home and see my family.”

“Fair enough,” said Micky. “Pete? Davy? Wanna come over for a drink? Or five?”

“Make that ten,” muttered Davy. “Y’know, Mick … I think I just need to go home. Next time, mate. You know I’m good for it.”

“Me, too,” said Peter, rubbing Micky’s back. “I wanna go home and see my friends …”

“The ‘naked people,’ you mean?” said Mike. Normally this would come out as a jibe, but there was warmth to his tone that made Peter laugh. One of many inside jokes that was already being born from this experience.

“Yeah,” Peter said, smiling. “And me among them. Today was heavy, guys.”

And then they heard footsteps and smelt a familiar scent of cigarettes. Producer Bert Schneider strode into view, his jacket slung over his shoulder. He stopped short and cocked his head at the Monkees. “Hey, guys. What the hell are you still doing here? We wrapped over an hour ago.”

“We were just uh … talking in the box,” said Micky. “Lost track of time.”

Bert smirked. “Yeah, I can see how that happens. Did you guys figure out whatever it was you need to figure out?”

“Yeah,” said Mike, looking at his friends and each catching their eyes as they smiled at him. “I think we figured out a bunch of stuff. I think we understand better now.”

Bert pursed his lips and nodded before taking another drag of his cigarette. “Well, you know what Buddha says,” he said, expelling smoke. “Understanding is the path to liberation.” He tapped his forehead knowingly and let out a chuckle. “Come on … get the hell outta here. Go enjoy yourselves. See you Monday.” He gave them a casual salut and strode away.

“Okay … see ya …” said Mike.

“… Mr. Schneider …” whispered Micky.

Peter let out a choked laugh, squeezing Micky’s shoulder.

When they reached the parking lot, each Monkee reached for his car keys and they looked at each other again, smiling.

“I … uh … just … thanks, fellas,” Mike said awkwardly, unable to meet their eyes.

“For what?” Micky asked earnestly.

“For everything. For today. I was the first one to ‘wake up’ in that place and I … I thought I was gonna lose it. But … y’all made it okay.”

“We all did. Together,” said Peter.

“Is this where we get all soppy now, lads?” said Davy cheekily.

Micky nudged his shoulder. “I’ll kiss ya later, baby.”

“Promise?”

Mike rolled his eyes, amused but also grateful for the lightening of the moment.

“See you Monday.”

“You bet.”

“Be sure to read the script over again … in case we go back,” said Micky mischievously.

“Micky!”

“Don’t even.”

“Go home, Dolenz.”

The four castmates parted ways, feeling more like real friends than they had in a very long time.


End file.
